


Frozen Fire

by Cloudgazer (Cloudgazer_DBH)



Series: Trials of the Dragonborn [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Baldur's Gate - Freeform, Dragonborn (D&D), Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Forgotten Realms - Freeform, Lizardfolk, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 91,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudgazer_DBH/pseuds/Cloudgazer
Summary: A former soldier from a far away land finds his way to Baldur's Gate on the trail of a dangerous criminal, a young cleric accompanies an old man to his destiny, and a dangerous artifact falls into the wrong hands.
Relationships: Original D&D Character(s)/Original D&D Character(s), Original Dragonborn Character(s)/Original Dragonborn Character(s)
Series: Trials of the Dragonborn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557541
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to all of the orphan D&D characters who only ever got to play in one-shots, games that died too soon, and low-plot games where they never got to shine. Those characters live on forever. Let them out of the box to sparkle every once in a while!

In all the cities of all the countries up and down the Sword Coast, Baldur’s Gate was, in many ways, the most dangerous. Waterdeep had danger, but it was deep down underneath, buried under the glamor of the upper echelons of society mixing with the scrappy undercity. Saltmarsh was sleepy and quaint, with the only real danger coming from a tacit tolerance of piracy, and the lizardfolk who lived in the swamp at the edges of the village. Baldur’s Gate, however, was a true, villainous cesspit, with cutpurses and toughs at the bottom of the pecking order, and iron-fisted thugs at the top keeping law and order the only way they thought their people deserved, and all the various people in the middle caught up in an endless game of cops and robbers. It was a city of equality, where everyone was free to be equally miserable.

In this city, simply walking into a tavern without a watchful eye at one’s back was enough to ask for a knife to get plunged into it. This was exactly what the silver dragonborn planned to do as he stood before the Elfsong Tavern, horned head slung low, hands in his pockets, staring up at the cutesy sign of the ghostly singing maiden.

He was somewhat disheveled, and his silvery scales had been tarnished somewhat by the dirt he had kicked up in his journey. He wore what seemed to be about half a military uniform, unfamiliar to those who were used to the grey plate and red insignia of the Flaming Fist. The dragonborn seemed to have slept in his clothes so much that it seemed permanently wrinkled, and from the bags beneath his eyes, it hadn’t been very good sleep either. Beneath it, his arms and chest seemed to ripple with muscle, and the missing top buttons of his jacket revealed that he wore no shirt underneath, either because it had been lost or became too destroyed to wear. On his back was a pack, the mark of a traveler, at one side was a drum and two wooden sticks packed into a holster, the mark of some sort of bard, and at his other side was a simple straight sword, the mark of an adventurer.

As he stared, he squinted his eyes. Scars marked up the bridge of the dragonborn’s rounded snout, and a clear, long one ran over his right eye. He frowned deeply, bending his neck down to look away from the sign, and sighed, reaching up to run a hand along his long, swept-back horns, contemplating his next move. Eventually, he could stall no longer. He walked forward, grabbed hold of the door with no more hesitation, and entered the tavern. He had heard strains of bad lute playing within, but that all ceased as soon as he darkened the door. The whole tavern was filled with people, and yet it seemed the loneliest place imaginable for a dragonborn looking for a drink, a place to stay, and a little information.

“What are you looking at?” snapped the dragonborn at a one-eyed halfling who had, a moment before, been carving something into his table. The halfling considered starting something but looked down at the combination of longsword and drum at the dragonborn’s side and found something else to focus on.

Satisfied that he had made a good first impression – these tough-guy types always tended to respect belligerence and strength – the dragonborn approached the bar and placed a gold coin on the counter. It was a Thymari guilder, stamped with the face of the dragonborn founder of Djerad Thymar, but he knew gold was gold, and the half-orc bartender took it all the same and sneered around her tusks. She stared at the silver dragonkin for a moment, brought the gold up to her teeth to test it, and, finding that it was real, pocketed it, not bothering to count out change, and wordlessly began filling up a pint with ale.

“A room,” he said, his voice deep and quiet, and marked with a heavy Thymari accent.

“Room’s extra,” she said, slamming the ale down on the counter. However, before she could finish upcharging the new blood, his hand was already on the counter, resting on a whole stack of identical gold pieces.

“If anything else is ‘extra’ this should cover it,” he snapped, squinting her eyes at her, “And should be good for some information besides.”

“I ain’t in the habit of talking about my clientele behind their backs, if you catch my drift.”

“Pity,” he said, before smoothly picking two of the shiny gold pieces up and palming them, “Then I suppose these two are for whoever in here isn’t so honorable. Maybe you’ll get a finder’s fee if you point ‘em out for me.”

The half orc furrowed her thick brow. The green of her face was turning flush. She realized this stranger was packing some coin, and knew if she didn’t cooperate soon, she would lose out on a payday.

“What kind of information you looking for, hun?” she said, switching to a less brusque manner for the sake of that little stack of gold on the counter.

“I’m looking for a man,” he said, “A dragonborn, like me.”

“We don’t get many dragonborn around here, hun.”

“Obviously,” the silver dragonborn snapped, “So he should stick out. Who’s got good eyes around this joint?”

The half-orc, deciding finally to play along fully, jerked her head to one side, to the corner, where the shadowy form of a human wearing a long cloak was seated. The dragonborn left the half-orc behind, letting her scoop the money into the till before the silver creature could turn around and take it, but the tough-looking dragonkin didn’t even look back. He simply walked up to the shadowy table in the corner and sat down across from the man, staring into his face with an uncommon intensity. He was surprised to find the look he received back was just as intense.

“What?” the human asked, and the dragonborn could see the red-blonde hairs of his beard moving in the shadows beneath his hood.

“Hear you’ve got good eyes,” said the dragonborn, placing the coins on the tabletop, but making sure his strong hands were always pinning them down, “Think you could help me find someone?”

“You’re a long way from Djerad Thymar, stranger,” said the man.

“Surprised you even know where I come from,” muttered the dragonborn, “I’m looking for another one of my kind. Bright yellow scales, older fellow, tall, curved horns and whiskers like a gold dragon.”

The man was silent for a moment. He tilted his head from one side, and then to the other, and the dragonborn got the distinct impression he was sizing up the bulky dragonkin. Eventually, however, his head went still, and he reached up to push back his hood. His head was covered with a shaggy, red-blonde mop which seemed to match the dirty, poorly kept beard and moustache beneath the pale man’s nose. He seemed skinnier than the dragonborn thought he would be, but from the intensity in those green eyes, the dragonborn knew this man was likely not to be trifled with.

“Why?” he asked, simply.

“What do you mean, why? Have you seen him or not?”

“Why are you searching for this other dragonborn?”

At this, the silver knitted his scaly brow, realizing something was wrong with the man. His speech wasn’t right. Despite his looks, he seemed to speak with an upper-class accent. However, it didn’t matter enough to give it much thought beyond that, and the dragonborn began to answer.

“He’s a criminal,” he answered, “A former cultist. Dragon cultist. Scum.”

“Not the kind of scum Djerad Thymar sends people out for.”

“I wasn’t sent by Tymanther,” answered the dragonborn, quickly, “This is… my mission.”

“Did this man wrong you?” asked the blonde human, slowly.

The dragonborn was quiet for a moment, before he answered back, “No. But he turned his back on his country and his people by allying himself with the five-headed tyrant. He deserves to die.”

“Glory, then?” asked the human, “Is that why you seek him?”

“I’m not paying you for therapy, mister,” cracked the dragonborn, suddenly, letting his low voice rise just a little, “I’m paying you for information.”

“You may get more than that,” the human muttered, leaning back, “Keep your money. What did he do?”

The dragonborn paused, before he too leaned back, taking back the two coins and deciding to simply explain. Perhaps this human was more than he seemed.

“Sacrifices. Murder. Extortion. Corruption. On top of everything, they strive to return the bitch from her hole in the nine hells. It was inexcusable. Most of them were caught, but this one – a dragonborn – got away.”

“It’s been a long time since the dragon cult was disbanded. It’s all remnants now.”

“And this one ain’t never been caught. That’s why I’m here. I heard about cult activity in the city and I intend to return to Djerad Thymar with his head.”

At this, the two men drank in silence for a moment, lifting their pints to their lips and snout respectively and taking a deep drink. As they did, they took the other in. The dragonborn could tell the man was lightly armored underneath that cloak, probably some kind of treated leather armor, perhaps reinforced for extra protection but mostly dependent on the wearer staying mobile. He couldn’t see the impression of a weapon, but figured it was hidden somewhere under the cloak. A dagger perhaps. He could see the man was wearing a simple rope necklace but did not see what kind of pendant hung beneath the top of the armor. As he took in the cloaked man, the cloaked man did the same for him.

“Your arm,” said the human, “How’d you injure it?”

He gestured to the dragonborn’s right arm, which was resting on the table while he drank his ale with his left. His eyes widened in surprise, but he tried his best not to react.

“Drill training,” he said.

“Were you a soldier long?”

“Years.”

“When did you retire?”

“Too young…” muttered the dragonborn, “What’s that got to do with…?”

“Perhaps you’re looking to make a name for yourself, so they’ll take you back?” said the man, “Perhaps hunting this man is how you intend to prove you can still fight?”

“Have you seen the gold dragonborn or not?” snapped the silver, feeling anger begin to bubble in his stomach.

“Oy!” the two of them suddenly heard from behind the silver dragonborn’s back. Slowly they both turned to look and saw a small crowd of tough-looking sailors standing, looming over the table. The voice then called out again, and the dragonkin’s eyes lowered to take in the form of the one-eyed halfling from before.

“You again?” muttered the dragonborn.

“What do you want, Cyclops?” asked the human, who seemed to tense up.

The halfling known as Cyclops ignored the human, before he laughed and pointed up at the dragonborn, “That’s him, boys. The big spender who disrespected me as he walked in. Don’t let him talk. He’s probably some kinda bard.”

“I ain’t a bard,” the dragonborn said, quickly, furrowing his brow, “Now piss off.”

“Oh no you don’t,” said Cyclops, before he waved his little arms, “Get ‘im boys!”

There were about three thickly muscled humans approaching, give or take some teeth or fingers, and they seemed ready to attack. The dragonborn’s own left hand was inching towards his sword. He knew there was to be a fight.

However, before anyone could throw the first punch, there was a sudden, resounding crack that echoed through the entire tavern, causing everyone who had before been sitting with heads down to turn and watch as one of Cyclops’ thugs held his face, which was bleeding profusely from a long, thin scratch which had cut deep. The Dragonborn was on his feet, pulling his longsword from its sheath and looking around for the source of the attack on the thug, and found the blonde man, his cloak up and over his shoulders, revealing not only the long, coiled leather bullwhip he held in his gloved hand, but the ornate symbol that hung from his neck, glowing with a faint light. It was in the shape of a shield, but with a silvery pattern of a scales of justice upon it. A holy symbol of Tyr, the maimed god, sword of justice.

The dragonborn wanted to ask but knew there would be time later. He instead turned towards the injured thug and, with a sudden flourish of his blade, struck out. There was soon a slash of blood leaking through the front of the man’s chest, where his shirt and skin had been sliced open by the dragonborn’s powerful slice. What’s more, with a flamboyant spin, every other man found that before they knew what had happened, they each had shallow cuts somewhere on their bodies as well, as the flashing blade of the stranger dragonborn found skin. They all drew back, suddenly, fear in their eyes.

“A whip?” asked the dragonborn, realizing at once that they had already won.

“Your form is all wrong for a left-handed fighter,” answered the human, “Must have been hard training yourself to fight with the wrong hand so well.”

The dragonborn didn’t smile, but he did nod, before he turned back towards the thugs. One had fled, and one had stepped away from the banter. Only Cyclops and one of his thugs stayed behind, and they seemed ready to bolt at any time.

One silver, draconic paw took a step forward, and the last thug was gone. Only Cyclops was left, abandoned by the cowards he had tried to pay to teach this dragonborn a lesson. He too tried to turn tail and leave, but he found himself suddenly encircled by the dragonborn’s arms. He tried to wiggle out, using his small frame and dexterous body to escape, but found the silver creature’s grip to be stronger than he expected.

“I’ve got business,” whispered the dragonborn into the halfling’s ears, “Piss… off…”

And with that, the silver dragonborn lifted the halfling into the air, and, to the sound of his screams, tossed the diminutive fellow bodily across the room, causing him to collide with the wall and slide down it, out for the count. A smattering of applause sounded out, but the dragonborn paid it no mind. He turned back to sit down again, and found a hand offered to him. He stared down at it and saw the face of the whip-toting Tyr worshiper, offering to shake his hand.

“Vanya,” said the human, grim-faced, but seeming to approve of the dragonborn.

“Creon Nastiar,” answered the dragonborn, taking the human’s hand and shaking it, “So. You seen my quarry or not?”

“Seen? No,” said Vanya, sitting back down, “But I’ve heard some things. I can help you.”

“What’s in it for you?” asked Creon, sitting himself down.

“Justice,” muttered the human, reaching up to touch the holy symbol hanging from his neck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balthezar Cloudgazer and his party arrive in the city of Baldur's Gate, accompanied by an odd itinerant priest belonging to no obvious denomination. Hotspur, begrudgingly, reveals her reason for coming along on this journey.

Balthezar Cloudgazer sat in the driver’s seat of a covered wagon, slowly approaching the edges of the outer city of Baldur’s Gate. The green dragonborn was exhausted, having been traveling for weeks on the long journey from Waterdeep back to the region of the Chionthar river. It had been a familiar sight, although he had seen most of it from the other direction as he had traveled as a younger adventurer just starting out. He was wistful most of the way there. It was odd, feeling so sure of himself. He had his best friend by his side, and other trusted companions in the back. He wasn’t alone, or terrified, or worried about money or his own safety like he was back when he was just coming into his powers. He was fairly certain that no matter what they encountered, he, Caliban, and Hotspur could deal with it easily. He was so relaxed that he seemed to doze most of the way there, confident that the sharp eyes of one or the other of his companions would alert him to any danger, and as he approached the Basilisk Gate on the northeastern side of Baldur’s Gate, he was very close to simply falling asleep with the horse’s reins in his hands.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?”

The green snout of the drowsing dragonborn perked up slightly. The voice of their client and travel companion sitting in the back of the covered wagon caused him to adjust the small spectacles perched on top of his draconic snout and look around. Some of the nearby sights had passed him by, and all he saw was the squalid outer city, a familiar sight, although before he had only caught a glimpse of it as he left Candlekeep and rode past on his way to Waterdeep.

“I… suppose?” said Balthezar Cloudgazer, straightening himself up and stretching. As he did, a large, scaly creature curled up next to the dragonborn in the driver’s seat stirred. Balthezar had been leaning against the heavily muscled lizard as he dozed, and the lizard seemed to be awakening.

“Don’t look at the city,” said the voice again from behind them, and Balthezar looked back, and then tried to follow their new friend’s advice, “Look past it. The river is beautiful isn’t it? The mist over the far bank of the Chionthar river.”

“I grew up around here, you know, Mr. Tiresius,” said Balthezar with a small smile, “I’ve seen the Chionthar river before.”

“No offense, but you don’t strike me as the type to grow up in Baldur’s Gate.”

Balthezar had to laugh, slightly bashful, but he shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “I didn’t. I grew up past the river, in Candlekeep. I’ve never truly been to Baldur’s Gate.”

“Splendid. Perhaps we can visit your family.”

Balthezar was suddenly quiet and let his face fall. He turned his face away from the opening of the covered wagon through which he was holding this conversation with their charge and stared out over the river. It was indeed misty in the early morning, and the far bank where he knew Candlekeep would be only a five day’s journey away seemed ghostly and ethereal.

As he stared, the lizardfolk at his side uncurled himself, sitting up and flicking his long tongue out to taste the air. His green scales and yellow-orange belly were cold in the cool air off the river, and the bearskin loincloth he wore as his only clothing did little to protect him, and so he pressed himself against Balthezar’s shoulder, taking in his body heat. His large eyes immediately set to work scanning their surroundings, each moving independently of the other, until one fell on Balthezar and the other settled on slowly watching the wretched poverty that surrounded them in the outer city of Baldur’s Gate.

The lizardfolk, seeming confused, spoke up, “Where is this?”

“Good morning Caliban,” said Balthezar cheerfully, “Baldur’s Gate. Or at least the outer city.”

Caliban continued to look around. He noted the people here seemed hungry and just as cold as he was. Their hovels were built from cheap, reclaimed wood or thatch, and it was a far cry from the towers and tenements they had become used to in the city of Waterdeep.

“Did I say something wrong?” the voice in the back said, after an awkward moment.

“Oh no. You had no way to know, it’s fine!” Balthezar said, reaching down with one hand to take the lizardfolk’s claw in his own, drawing strength from it, “It’s just that I’ve no family. I was an orphan, left with Candlekeep to raise me as a scribe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No! It’s fine!” Insisted Balthezar, “I had a wonderful upbringing, honestly.”

“We should all be so lucky,” said the voice, with a clear smile in its tone, “How about you Sir Caliban? Have you ever been to Baldur’s Gate?”

“No,” Caliban said, bluntly.

“Will you all shut up?” a sudden, fourth voice suddenly rang out. It was a woman’s voice, with a high-born accent but a gruff manner, and a moment later over Balthezar and Caliban’s shoulder, a half-orc with her hair tied up in a long black braid behind her thrust her head out of the back of the cart. Her scowl, made terrifying by her wide, orcish jaw and long, white tusks, was paired with an imperious squint of her pretty blue eyes. “I’m trying to sleep!”

“Hotspur,” said Balthezar, unphased by the half-orc’s brusque manner, “It’s nearly ten bells.”

“And you drove us over every single bump in the road and kept me up all night, damn you. Gods!”

At this, Hotspur finally saw where they were. Her blue eyes widened as she took in the outer city, as well as the imposing Basilisk Gate which stood between this squalor and the city proper.

“This is Baldur’s Gate? Gods, I knew I should have stayed behind with Pequod and Puck.”

“Didn’t your mother send you on with us to meet someone here?” asked Balthezar.

“Don’t remind me…” sneered Hotspur as she ducked back into the covered wagon and began to rummage around for her things.

The voice in the back chimed in, “I assure you it’s bigger than it looks from the outside. Certainly not the city of splendors, but respectable, and dangerous. Am I correct in assuming that appeals to you Miss Eagleshield?”

“Hotspur,” the half-orc grunted, “When we’re on missions, it’s Hotspur. Get it right.”

“Of course.”

“Cloudgazer,” said Caliban, suddenly, and Balthezar turned his gaze back to the road, where the Basilisk Gate was approaching. They saw that a man, human, was standing in the middle of the road with a spear in one hand and his other arm outstretched, ordering Balthezar to halt silently. The dragonborn obliged, pulling back on the reins and smiling down at the grim-looking soldier. With his eyes accustomed to taking in a man’s battle capabilities at a glance, Balthezar noted that he wore jointed splint mail armor under a red and blue tabard displaying a peculiar coat of arms of a clenched fist wreathed in flame.

“Probably a border crossing,” muttered Hotspur over Balthezar’s shoulder, “Let me do the talking.”

“In the name of the Flaming Fist,” the man said, “Exit the vehicle for inspection.”

Balthezar nodded his head at once, eager to follow directions and enter the city so they could get on with business. He tied the reins of his horse to the cart for later and climbed down, followed closely by Caliban, who was taking in this man in armor. He looked around and saw that five more men in identical armor were already gathering not far from them. Balthezar was confident that they had nothing to hide, but Caliban was immediately on edge and reached for the dragonborn’s hand to squeeze it.

From the back of the cart, Hotspur exited. Unlike her usual preferred method of dress when she was out and about for the sake of adventure, the half-orc was wearing high-quality, high ranking clothes of nobility, although she had just been sleeping in them. She was wearing tall, patent leather boots over wide-legged, tweed riding pants, and a violet doublet that hugged up to her neck with slashed sleeves and voluminous shoulders. Over the doublet, in a nod to her own style over her station’s, she wore a leather-and-whalebone corset which accentuated her trim figure, and made her strong arms and shoulders seem even larger and more imposing. She walked forward, glancing down at the mud of the road with a sneer as she lamented the loss of the shine on her boots, and walked on towards the soldier.

“Hellena Eagleshield,” she said, hardly acknowledging the man’s presence as she raised a hand and produced a folded piece of paper with a wax seal of an eagle upon it, offering it to the man, “I hope we can make this quick?”

The soldier seemed unimpressed, “What are you supposed to be, half-breed?”

The sudden rage cut through Hotspur’s performative snobbery, and she drew up to her full height, widening her eyes and staring straight at the man.

“Are you going to read the damn letter, or do I have to shove it down your throat?”

“Don’t get sass with…”

“No, no, no,” Hotspur said, her eyes narrowing to small slits as she raised a hand to silence the man, “You don’t get to be sassy with me, unless you want to lose your position for backtalking nobility.”

“Nobili…?”

“Read. The damn. Letter,” grunted Hotspur, turning her hand over and displaying the ornate signet ring she wore on the hand holding the piece of paper. She smiled at the sudden nervous look on the man’s face as he beheld that icon of high station. “You wouldn’t keep the bride-to-be of a patriar household of Baldur’s Gate waiting, would you, or shall Lady Greylash have to come down from the Upper City herself to demote you to an even lowlier position than guard dog?”

The man bristled at this insinuation and seemed poised to call the men and women of the Flaming Fist from their posts to teach these upstarts a lesson, but at the same time, he knew there was more to these people than it first appeared. He looked Hotspur up and down, at the strong body and noble dress, and then towards that feral looking lizardfolk who had subtly stepped in front of that skinny green dragonborn. The lizard’s mouth parted, and he bore his sharp teeth shining in the rising sunlight, and the dragonborn’s hands were already raised, a spell on his nervous lips ready to be cast at a moment’s notice. The guard knew these people were beyond him, whether a half-orc noble was an absurdity or not. He finally took the letter from the woman and stepped backwards, breaking the seal and reading it silently. He furrowed his brow and bared his teeth in annoyance, but he eventually handed the letter back to the half-orc, who seemed eminently pleased with herself, and turned back to his fellows.

“Open the gate!” he cried, before turning back towards the three of them, “Anything to declare before you enter the city?”

“Well, there’s…” began Balthezar, but Hotspur spoke over him.

“Nothing. Thank you for your cooperation,” she said, before she gestured for Balthezar to climb back on board and turned to walk around and get into the covered wagon herself. Balthezar hesitated, glancing from the guard to the wagon, but eventually followed the noble’s instructions and climbed back into the driver’s seat, followed by Caliban.

The guard paused at this, but decided it was more trouble than it was worth to ask to inspect the cart. The Greylash family was terrifying enough without delaying their son’s bride to be from her present course.

The tall, crenelated arch had massive reinforced wood doors which, slowly and surely, began to open for this visiting noble from Waterdeep. As the gates opened, there was a marked uptick in activity from the houses and crowds nearest to the Basilisk gate as poor, destitute people of all races began to rush the gate. However, the Flaming Fist were quick in their appointed task. They fanned out, forming a hard blockade against the tide of humanity that tried to enter the walls of the inner city, and allowed Balthezar to snap the reins and drive the cart in unimpeded. Soon after, the gates closed behind them, and they found themselves in Baldur’s Gate.

The city itself from within was far more impressive than they expected having only seen the outer city before. The architecture was old and ramshackle, but in that certain way that cities have that lets one know that it has been here for hundreds of years. New buildings and old buildings crowded around one another and were impossible to tell apart unless one had the knowledge to pick apart the facades. All around them, people had set up stalls and merchant carts by the side of the main drag to entice them to lighten their loads and spend some coin before entering the bustling downtown area. Balthezar, knowing better than to give such hucksters any more of his time than necessary, drove his horse on and the wagon rolled on past.

“Hotspur,” he muttered as they rode through the city, “Why didn’t we tell the guards about Mr. Tiresius?”

“No need to give the guards more information than they need,” said Hotspur, smoothly, “Besides, I figure you would rather be anonymous here, wouldn’t you, Tiresius?”

There was a small chuckle from within, before the voice answered, “I do appreciate it. It would have been fine, but the fewer people see me, probably the better.”

“Is… is that so?” Balthezar muttered, suddenly unsure.

“Don’t worry, Balthezar Cloudgazer, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

At this, the owner of the voice finally emerged from the covered wagon, pushing aside the flap of cloth separating the driver’s seat from the inside of the wagon. His scales glinted in the sunlight, and at the touch of the sun on his face in the chilly morning, the other dragonborn smiled grandly, causing the thick, rope-like whiskers to rise up on his face. He was an older gentleman, possibly in his mid-fifties, dressed in an austere fashion, somewhat like a traveling priest, although he wore no holy symbols or identifiers. His horns, the color of burnished, gold-tinged brass, curved upwards, and Long ropes of scales hung behind his back like a cascade of long blonde hair. As he opened his slate-gray eyes, he looked up at the blue sky, reaching up with a hand to twist his long moustache-like whiskers between his fingers. Balthezar smiled at the kindly old man they had been carting around ever since he had hired them in Waterdeep.

“Thank you all,” he said, in a Thymari accent, although Balthezar could not identify which region of Tymanther he was from, having never been there himself.

“All we’ve done is bring you here, Mr. Tiresius,” said Balthezar, “You still haven’t told us what your actual goal is here. If you need help with something, we can…”

“Don’t go pitying me just because I’m an old man, Cloudgazer,” said Tiresius with a toothy smile. The gold dragonborn was still handsome, the crags and shine at the tips of his scales lending his face a distinguished calm, and Balthezar had to admit he had wondered what it might have been like to meet the old dragonkin when he was in his prime. “I can take care of myself.”

“Still. I insist wherever you’re going, we accompany you there.”

“You’re sweet,” said Tiresius as he reached up to pinch the side of the green dragonborn’s soft face with a fond smirk, “Fine. I have business at the Blade and Stars in Eastway. It’s an inn. Lovely people. No safer than any other tavern in town, but certainly friendlier to strangers than most.”

“You all can do what you like,” grunted Hotspur from the back, “Unfortunately I’ve an appointment to keep with Lady Greylash, damn it all.”

“Is it, uh, true that you’re getting married, Hotspur?” asked Balthezar, “You didn’t tell us that.”

“A betrothal is a long way from a marriage, Balthezar,” Hotspur snapped, and by the sound of her grunts, she was cleaning the mud from the road off of her boots, “I intend to meet Lady Greylash, meet with whoever this son of hers is, they’ll run the other way at the sight of green skin and tusks, and I’ll be free to join you. I imagine you’ll need me if you intend to wander about a city like this.”

“Cloudgazer is mine,” Caliban said, suddenly, “I will protect Cloudgazer.”

“Of course. But who will protect you?” asked Hotspur with a laugh as she peeked her head through the curtain, “My family only has so many priceless heirloom jewels to spare, you know. Caliban can’t go getting himself killed every time we go on a walkabout.”

“You don’t have to make fun of me, Hotspur,” said Balthezar, his face flush with clear embarrassment, “There wasn’t time to warn you about the costs of restorative magic. A life is more valuable than a jewel.”

“Especially your boyfriend’s life, eh? Tell that to mother when she found out,” Hotspur grunted, withdrawing back into the cart.

At this Tiresius’s smile grew, “I knew you were powerful, Cloudgazer, but I didn’t know you were that powerful.”

Balthezar’s green face seemed to darken in a blush as he smiled at the sudden complement from the older dragonborn. He simply laughed in answer. Soon, however, Tiresius pointed towards a squat building which seemed to be a tavern, although there was no sign above the door.

“We’re here.”

“Good!” cried Hotspur, “Now get out. I’ve met Lady Greylash. She takes punctuality very seriously.”

At this, Balthezar and Caliban stepped out of the driver’s seat and Hotspur, with a dangerously sharp black greataxe with a wicked, orcish blade strapped to her back, took their place. The green dragonborn rushed around to the back, where Tiresius was slowly climbing out. Balthezar offered his hand to the older gold dragonborn, and he took it with a smile. His body had gone slightly to seed in his age, his heavier belly betraying a good life, but it merely made him seem more jolly than usual, especially in his simple grey cloak which he had pulled tightly around his body against the day’s chill.

“Thank you, Cloudgazer. Come, let’s go inside. You too, Caliban.”

“Don’t die!” cried Hotspur with a smug smile and a wave, before she took up the reins and snapped them hard. The surprised horse neighed in complaint but was soon gone down the road and around the corner.

The three scaled creatures watched the cart go. Balthezar had retrieved only his coinpurse, a long halberd, and of course a religious symbol to the god of knowledge and writing, Deneir, who guided his journey. Caliban had nothing but a small satchel attached to his belt and a strange, purple jewel around his neck which seemed to glow with a supernatural light, but his teeth were the only weapon he needed. Tiresius seemed to have even less than that, with only a thin pack on his back and his empty hands tucked into his sleeves in front of him.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Tiresius, gesturing to the open door of the Blade and Stars, “Shall we?”

The green dragonborn and lizardfolk both nodded, before they instinctively took up a protective phalanx around the sweet old man, Caliban in front, ready to protect the rest of the formation from whatever came at them, and Balthezar in the back, to patch them all up when the fighting was done. Tiresius took note of the efficiency of this team of adventurers and, with a little smile, took his own place in the middle, were he was the most protected.

\--

It was just another day in another parlor of another noble household for Hellena Eagleshield. Tea in a gloved hand, dressed in her expensive finery. She turned twenty years old just one month before, and her mother’s desperation to see her daughter at least betrothed was driving her to more and more desperate measures, thus this sojourn to Baldur’s Gate.

For the half-orc woman, these outings had become something of a routine. Her mother brings her some awful man – usually the second son of a noble house who never bothered to teach the spare manners, or a simpleton and bore who didn’t even deserve her time. By the end, the boy had been either humiliated beyond all propriety, or was too intimidated by the idea of marrying someone with orcish blood, their mothers would put their heads together, and the chaperoned tea party was abruptly over.

Today, as Hellena sipped her tea, she was glad her mother would not be here to drive the conversation, and to try to guide her to be like all the other girls her age. Nevermind that most of the airheaded waifs she had grown up with were already happily – or unhappily – married off to some appropriate match. She wondered what kind of person the Greylash brat would be. From what little Hellena knew, the Greylashes were an old Balduran family of some means; patriars, as they called them here. What she didn’t know was what exactly the Greylashes did outside of being vaguely wealthier than the smallfolk. She knew that Baldur’s Gate, for all of its danger and intrigue, was truly a more equal place – or at least a more honest one. The four dukes who ruled the city were elected, unlike Waterdeep’s convoluted legal system which benefited only law and order for those already at the top. As far as her mother was concerned, it would have been advantageous for the Greylashes to join with the Eagleshield’s fortune based in bits, bridles, and horsewhips, whatever it was they did, and politically, it made sense for Hellena to leave Waterdeep and become the bride of some other noble house. She was little loved in the city of Splendors, although she was set to inherit everything from her mother when it was time. Best to establish herself in another city which might be at least marginally friendlier to her situation. At least that’s how she figured everyone else thought, and the thought disgusted her.

The girl sat in silence for a moment, sipping at her cup as the sunlight streamed in gently through the lacy curtains of the picture window. It had been several minutes, and in all honesty, she had begun to grow bored, and then suspicious. She had an odd feeling about this. Surely it shouldn’t take Lady Greylash this long to greet her guest, especially with how warmly she had written the letter to her mother asking to meet with Hellena. She was glad her mother hadn’t insisted she wear a dress or to tighten her corset to try to force her to have a less butch figure, or else she would have been miserable as she waited.

“They’re late,” muttered Hellena, putting down her tea and crossing her arms. She wondered if they were trying to play hardball, but that made no sense. She didn’t give a damn if she got married or not, and her mother was sure to mention that. Playing hard to get wouldn’t make sense if their families were truly trying to set up a match. Furthermore, Hellena knew her own family was somewhat in disgrace due to her mother’s marriage to the son of an Orc tribal chieftain. The Greylashes were desperate enough to send for her, so why treat her like she was secondary?

Before she could control herself, Hellena felt a sudden pang in her belly. It was a strange, sudden fright, unfortunately familiar to her. It was a feeling she had known her whole life – not good enough, not dainty enough, not human enough. She wished suddenly to talk to her mother. She could have said something, anything, to try to calm her daughter, and she would inevitably bristle and try to fight back. She was always most comfortable in a fight. She sighed, and straightened her back, picking up her cup of tea and chugging the rest of the sweet, lemony swill. She wished she had a beer.

Suddenly, her pointed ears perked up as she heard the door open. A servant entered, bowing to her and announcing, “Lady Sallah Greylash, m’lady.”

Another woman walked through the door then, and Hellena immediately recognized her – despite her dislike of her station in life, she had known better than to forget the face of another member of esteemed nobility – it was a dumpy, serious-faced woman with over-made-up skin and a fantastical red wig piled on top of her head. Hellena knew that this was Lady Greylash, a severe woman of great means – political money, she knew, and money that had been earned through less than savory means, like many patriar family houses in Baldur’s Gate.

Lady Greylash entered with a smile, although when her mouth moved, her eyes did not brighten with it. Hellena knew she was not happy it had come to a meeting with the Eagleshields of all people. Green skin and tusks did not normally attract old families like the Greylashes. Knowing what her mother’s instructions would be, Hellena stood. Knowing her place, she was all talk at once, greeting Lady Greylash with a warm smile.

“Lady Greylash,” She said, leaning forward to press two kisses on either of the older woman’s painted cheeks, being careful that her tusks did not brush against the woman’s face, “It’s so good to see you. I hope you remember me. Surely it’s been an age.”

She hoped the sight of the half-orc smiling around her tusks would give the old bitch a heart attack.

“Yes, well,” Lady Greylash said, non-committal, “I apologize for leaving you waiting for so long. I had to… track down my grandson.”

Grandson? Hellena wracked her brain. It occurred to her that she had never met any of the Greylash children. She had grown up knowing most of the noble children of Waterdeep and a few from Neverwinter and Baldur’s Gate in school, or just through parties and functions. The Greylashes, however, were not one of the families she had such familiarity with when it came to their heirs.

“Yes, of course. A little shy, is he?” Joked Hellena, “I can’t say if I’ve ever met him before.”

Lady Greylash walked over to a chair beside the tea table with a snort and sat without another word. Hellena, realizing there was a discussion to be had, sat with a slightly forced smile, already weary of these parlor games.

“He’s on his way here now,” said Lady Greylash, “I have a friend of mine retrieving him. Probably carousing down at that disgusting tavern.”

“He enjoys a drink then?” asked Hellena, intending to get a read on who this Vanya Greylash was. If he was a drunk that would explain why he had gone unmarried.

“If only he did!” the older lady interrupted suddenly, the last of her smile disappearing into a more comfortable grimace as she lost all pretenses, “Drink I could deal with! His father could put away a drink or two. No, he’s something else entirely… But, that’s beside the point.”

“Well, if I’m to marry this man, I think I should like to know what exactly that something else is,” insisted Hellena.

This seemed to be a step slightly too far for the woman, and she stared up at the half-orc with half-lidded, sharp eyes. Immediately, Hellena knew she had misspoken, and hurried to put the conversation back on track.

“What I meant,” She said, smoothly, “is that my mother and I are very curious about the gentleman. I don’t believe I’ve ever met him, or I was too young when I did.”

“He never was well enough to go on to school is why,” said the lady, “I would have loved to send him up to Waterdeep to befriend some of the lords there. But of course, after everything that happened…”

“What happened?” asked Hellena, eyes widening. From Lady Greylash’s tone, she could tell there was something juicy about this story.

Lady Greylash looked askance at the half-orc, but simply sneered and went on, “You and he are to be married anyway. You might as well know. I used to have a granddaughter. Older. She should have inherited the whole fortune, honestly. She was a sweet thing, and a good head on her shoulders besides. She would have gone places… but…”

“But…?”

“She was killed,” said the lady, “Some miscreant unleashed a beast of some sort, it attacked, and poor Emma was killed. My grandson saw the whole thing.”

Hellena was silent at this, blinking her eyes. Her mental image of the Greylash brat was changing from moment to moment, first a coward, then a drunk, and now a frightened child. Pity seemed to bloom in her. She disliked feeling pity for anyone.

“He went a little mad. Spent some time in a sanitarium. Eventually he found the Gods, damn him.”

Ah. There it was. Hellena understood.

“So he wishes to take the cloth for one of the Gods?” asked Hellena, “Why offer him for marriage then? Unless he’s following Tymora or Selune or something…”

“Tyr,” grunted Lady Greylash, “The damnable boy vowed an oath to Tyr.”

“Oath…?” Hellena muttered. She had spent enough time out in the world of adventure to know what that likely meant.

Just then, both pairs of eyes turned to react to the door opening. A butler entered and announced, “Ms. Beatrice Shortbread, my lady.”

“Good! Maybe she found my damnable Grandson,” said Lady Greylash, not bothering to stand, “Send her in.”

Shortbread? Hellena had heard that name before. But where? An instant later, she had her answer as Ms. Beatrice Shortbread walked in. She was in a floor-length black dress with a high collar and lacy sleeves, and she leaned heavily on a pale wooden cane. Her hair was stark white, and her jolly face was lined with wrinkles. She turned to regard both faces in the room, falling last upon Hellena. She smiled, and both recognized the other immediately.

Two years before, Ms. Shortbread had been an informant for them, introducing them to a source of information which lead them to Auldina and eventually to maneuvering him to revealing himself. The last time Hellena – or rather Hotspur – had met the old woman, she had a rapier held to Pequod’s throat while some kind of shadowy monk tested whether Hotspur was worthy of the information. Hellena was on edge. The old woman seemed frail now, but she knew that behind all of that was a capable warrior, and probably an astute information broker.

“Well?” grunted Lady Greylash without pomp, “Where is he?”

“I’m afraid he’s not coming,” said Ms. Shortbread, “He’s quite adamant that he’s giving up his family name for his oath. It’s quite admirable.”

“I’d say so!” said Hellena, relieved. She didn’t have to meet anyone after all! “I guess if he’s not on the market…”

“I say Beatrice, I want you to march right back to wherever he is, and you tell him the matriarch of his household demands that he come and meet my guest.”

“Ms. Shortbread, please,” said the old woman, “And I’m afraid that isn’t going to work. He’s quite a strong fellow. I doubt I could force him to come here.”

“Then get some of those thugs to do it for you!” Lady Greylash all but screamed, “You’re always hanging around with low-born trash! Surely one of them could…”

“Please, don’t insult my boys, Lady Greylash. Don’t forget who you’re speaking to.”

At this, Lady Greylash fell silent, to the astonishment of Hellena Eagleshield. Immediately, despite the hard feelings Hotspur still held for this odd old woman, she found that she liked Ms. Shortbread quite immensely in that moment.

“Anyway, no use letting tea and biscuits go to waste,” said Ms. Shortbread, who hobbled forward towards Hellena, “May I, dearie?”

“Er, of course,” said Hellena, making room on the sofa for her. Ms. Shortbread then poured herself a cup of tea. Hellena turned to look at Lady Greylash, who was red in the face, but silent. What did this woman have on such an important family?

“So tell me, Hot… I mean, of course, Hellena,” said Ms. Shortbread with an impish smile, “I want to know how you have been.”

“Do you two know one another?” asked Lady Greylash.

“Oh yes. We’ve met on business,” said Ms. Shortbread.

“I see.”

Hellena began to speak, finding that she appreciated the woman taking an interest in her for some small talk, “I’ve been fine, Ms. Shortbread. Growing stronger every day. I wonder if I might trouble you to know what kind of person this Greylash boy is.”

“Very interesting fellow. Hardly a boy, either. He’s somewhat older than you, and Sallah has tried to marry him off several times. Would be wasted in a noble house somewhere.”

“Ms. Shortbread!” cried Lady Greylash.

“It’s true!” Ms. Shortbread insisted, “Honestly. The only thing he cares about is fighting and making a difference in the world. He would be miserable in a noble house, surrounded by all of this stuffy opulence. Reminds me of another person I know.”

With a twinkle in her eye, Ms. Shortbread smirked over at Hellena, who wondered for a moment if this was a setup. Was she trying to get Hellena to marry the Greylash brat after all? She realized that she was showing her thoughts plainly on her face, and that this insightful woman could read her like a book, and she turned away to sip her tea.

“Tyr, huh?” asked Hellena, “Do-gooder type, then?”

“Somewhat,” said Ms. Shortbread, “Although he’s had to learn some underhanded tactics. He’s carried the family business into his new profession, for example.”

“Family business?”

Clearing her throat, Lady Greylash sat up a little straighter and put on another false smile. “I think this meeting is over. My apologies little Hellena. I thought my boy was better than this.”

“No apologies necessary, Ma’am,” Hotspur said, trying to put on an affectation of disappointment, although there was nothing but relief inside. Her mind was already off at the Blade and Stars, imagining what she hoped was some sort of peril she could rescue the lizard and dragonborn from, “I suppose if someone isn’t ready to fulfil their duty, I can’t fault him.”

“He’s going to regret this,” Lady Greylash muttered around her smile, “Humiliating me like this…”

Sensing that the lady would rather be alone in that moment, Ms. Shortbread cleared her throat and said, “I think we had better be going, Hellena. Thank you for your hospitality Sallah. Perhaps another time.”

Lady Greylash waved a hand then, shooing them off. Hellena could not hide the look of annoyance at the Lady’s rude manners, but she knew that her family outranked the Eagleshield’s immensely – her existence being part of the reason for that she couldn’t help but think – and so she held her tongue.

“I’ll walk you out. Perhaps since the rest of the day is free, the two of us might sit down for a bite,” said Ms. Shortbread, standing and leading the half-orc out of the room.

Suspicious at once, Hellena asked, “You have something further to discuss?”

In answer to this, Ms. Shortbread only smiled. She stayed quiet, causing Hellena to furrow her brow in confusion. They were led by a butler out of the manor, and eventually out on the street and walking towards Hotspur’s covered wagon which had been parked in front of the Greylash residence.

“Lady Eagleshield, I’m wondering if you would like to accompany me for an expedition.”

“And what exactly does that mean, Ms. Shortbread?” Hellena asked, chancing a smirk, “Mother insists that I give adventuring a rest until we find for me an advantageous marriage.”

“Well! If another time would be better…”

“No!” cried Hellena, rushing forward and offering a hand for Ms. Shortbread, “We can discuss on the way. I would be happy to accompany you.”

“Well, I never turn down an invitation,” said Ms. Shortbread, walking up to the driver’s seat of the wagon and making herself comfortable with a smile. She retrieved a lacy parasol from her side and opened it, shielding her skin against the high, mid-day sun.

Hellena gave a smirk before she followed Ms. Shortbread up. Despite her suspicions about where this was leading, and despite the resentment she felt in having had to kow-tow to that woman in there, and despite her wish to go see what her companions were doing, she was truly interested in what this meddling old woman had to say. If nothing else, the Greylash boy seemed to be more exciting than she had first thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three adventures in Baldur's Gate; an impromptu barroom brawl, a crawl through the city's sewers, and a dive into a spooky crypt.

The Blade and Stars, it turns out, was a very friendly place to a man like Tiresius. Balthezar and Caliban hardly had anything to worry about. From the first moment they walked in, the name of their employer was on the owner’s lips, and the human woman treated the three of them to drinks and promises of a good deal on a room and a meal. The woman, Lupin, was thin and mousy, with her hair tied up in a messy bun and her apron stained with the day’s work, but she was nevertheless happy to host the adventurers.

After a few hours of pampering and conversation – during which Balthezar learned a great deal about the great favor this bartender owed Tiresius for some unspecified help she needed at some point – Lupin moved along, wiping down the counter and greeting the few toughs who wandered in this late in the evening.

“Lupin is a sweetheart,” said Tiresius, tall pint of pale lager in his grip, “Hope you don’t mind all the talk of this old man’s stories.”

“Oh no, indeed,” said Balthezar, smiling. He sat next to Caliban, pressed against him as the lizardfolk rested a strong arm around the green dragonborn’s shoulder. Both of them held beers in their grip, Balthezar’s a modest glass and Caliban’s a massive stein usually offered to dwarves passing through. “I didn’t know you were such a prolific adventurer in your day, Mr. Tiresius.”

“Still am, sometimes, but you can only go so far by yourself. I had help then, just like I have help now.”

“You carry no weapons,” said Balthezar, smiling as his analytical mind took over, looking the gold dragonborn over. Eventually his smile widened, and he raised a hand, “No book, either. Certainly not a wizard, and you don’t have the telltale signs of a warlock pact. Were you born with innate magic, Mr. Tiresius?”

“Well, good guess. How’d you know?”

Self-satisfied, Balthezar nodded his head and took a sip, before he went on, “I studied magic in Candlekeep. I intended to become a wizard, myself, but I never had the knack for it. My true purpose came to me with a blessing from …”

“…Deneir, god of writing and literature. Scribe of Oghma.” Tiresius said, “Doesn’t tend to take on chosen warriors lightly.”

“You’re knowledgeable about the gods. I’m impressed,” said Balthezar, “I must admit I’m not the most learned in religious matters. The whole Cleric thing was somewhat, er, thrust upon me. I know of Deneir, and of course Oghma and Mystara are well-regarded in Candlekeep, but beyond the gods of knowledge and magic I haven’t had much exposure.”

“That’s all right. Nobody really needs to follow the Gods to be happy,” insisted Tiresius, “In fact, I usually think it’s best that They stay out of the affairs of men. Usually turns out better that way.”

This caused Balthezar’s face to fall slightly. “Odd opinion. Are you speaking from experience?”

Tiresius never lost his smile as he nodded his head, “Used to be a… holy man myself, you might say. Never a proper cleric, of course, but they regarded my powers as divine in their own right. They were wrong to venerate me, and I was wrong to let them.”

“Sorcerers usually have something of a bloodline to them,” said Balthezar, intrigued by the dragonborn’s story all of a sudden, “A conduit of the weave within, where their blood has mixed with some form of creature or anomaly in the fabric of things. Are you aware of your bloodline?”

“Oh yes. Very much so,” said Tiresius, “I’m a child of dragons, if you must know.”

“A draconic sorcerer? And a dragonborn besides. Surprising.”

Caliban blinked his eyes, one staring at Balthezar and the other at Tiresius, “Why does it surprise Cloudgazer? He is already dragon. Dragonblood makes sense.”

“Well, it’s something of a misconception that dragonborn have much to do with the dragons of this realm, Caliban,” explained Balthezar, happily, “We are actually migrants to the world of Toril. The region of Tymanther was shifted over during the second sundering. Dragonborn appeared then and have slowly begun to integrate. The world we come from has a much weaker grip on magic, having no access to the weave like we do on this world. Dragonborn with magical blood, are, therefore, exceedingly rare, and dragonblood even more so. The first dragonborn settlers on Toril were very suspicious of dragons, since the ones on Abeir were almost universally evil, tyrannical slavers. Your family must have had contact with the source of your powers relatively recently.”

“Not as recent as you think, but you’ve got the right idea,” said Tiresius, “Aren’t we a pair, though? A sorcerer who knows the Gods and a cleric who knows the arcane. I hope you aren’t too bored with the conversation, Caliban.”

At this point, Caliban snapped out of the sudden fugue he had entered as Balthezar’s long-winded explanation of the history of the realms washed over him. He focused one eye once again on Tiresius and said, “I don’t need to understand.”

Tiresius couldn’t help but laugh at this, although Balthezar seemed faintly offended, although the other dragonborn’s infectious laughter softened his mood.

“If you don’t get something, don’t be afraid to ask, Caliban,” said Balthezar, “I’m always happy to explain.”

“I know,” Caliban said, bluntly, and said nothing more.

As Balthezar’s face fell again, realizing that Caliban wasn’t going to ask any more questions, Tiresius leaned forward and rested his face in his hand, gazing from one member of the pair to the other. His smile was growing every moment, until he laughed once, hard.

“Something the matter, Mr. Tiresius?” asked Balthezar.

“You two are a pair, too, I must say,” he said.

“Er… Yes, we are, I suppose,” said Balthezar, his face blushing a deeper green, “That doesn’t offend you I hope.”

“No. I know better than to judge on things like that. I like seeing young people who’ve found one another,” Tiresius said, clapping his hands together and then gently twining his fingers, “How long have you known each other?”

Caliban answered then, closing his eyes and looking off, before he said, “Two winters.”

“Has it been that long?” asked Balthezar with a smile.

Caliban nodded his head, Balthezar seemed thoughtful, and continued.

“I am surprised that you’re so accepting Mr. Tiresius. We’re rather well-known around the Dragonborn community of Waterdeep, but those who come fresh from Tymanther, well, they tend to look askance at us.”

“Do they? Well, I haven’t been there for a long time,” explained Tiresius, “I expect it’s got something to do with that rigid clan thing they got going on up there.”

“I believe so. I never grew up there so I can’t say, but I’ve often had people call my relationship with Caliban, er, ‘hatchling stuff.’”

“Finding love outside your species?”

“Finding love with a man,” Balthezar explained, his face falling, “They think I’ll grow out of it and fulfil my, er, ‘clan duty.’ Nevermind I have no clan to fulfil a duty for. Cloudgazer was just a silly nickname the other acolytes gave me.”

“That ain’t nice of ‘em,” Tiresius muttered, “Perhaps you two can start your own clan. How would you like to take on the name Cloudgazer, Caliban?”

Balthezar’s blush intensified at the suggestion, as Caliban tilted his head to one side, seeming confused. Balthezar spoke first.

“It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Tiresius,” said Balthezar, “We’ll never be married. That’s not in the cards for us.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Cloudgazer is mine, and I am Cloudgazer’s,” explained Caliban, as if it was the simplest concept in the world, “As mates, or companions, or friends. That is forever. Love is not.”

“It is a part of our, er, arrangement,” said Balthezar, smiling bashfully, but with the practice of having had to explain it many times, “Lizardfolk do not mate for life. It’s simply not their way. It was difficult for me to understand at first, but I’ve come to appreciate it. Caliban is a friend who will never leave me, but even recently we’ve… er…”

Balthezar continued to blush even harder as he realized he was discussing his sex life with a stranger. It was made worse by Tiresius’ smiling face, seeming to be truly interested. He realized that his desire to explain was likely motivated by an urge to make sure this Tiresius person understood and still liked him. It had been hard even for the green dragonborn to understand what exactly he was to the lizardfolk, and he didn’t want to scare away this new friend before they even got to know him.

“We’ve both had wandering eyes recently…” Balthezar finally muttered, “But that’s alright. Our friendship will outlast that.”

Caliban nodded, his arm curling around Balthezar’s shoulder harder, and the two of them leaned into one another cozily. Tiresius nodded his head, seeming impressed.

“Very mature,” he said, “Though I feel like anyone who sees you two together would get quite the wrong impression. You’re very… close.”

“Er… Well,” said Balthezar, and he felt an urge to push away from Caliban, to establish some distance, but at the same time he was comfortable leaning up against the lizardfolk’s cool scales, and so he let it go. “They will have to… learn to understand as well.”

The gold dragonborn laughed at this, leaning back in his chair. Balthezar sighed, some tension within releasing from him as he realized that not only did Tiresius approve, he understood. It was odd, he suddenly thought, to want the approval of this older gentleman they had only known for the past three weeks, but it felt nice to have all the same. As Balthezar raised his drink to his snout and took a long sip from it, however, Tiresius suddenly turned to watch as three cloaked figures entered the bar.

Caliban noticed this sudden distraction from their new companion first and allowed one of his eyes to swivel over to watch as the cloaked humanoids, their races obscured by long, dark robes, sat in the corner of the barroom and immediately hunched over in hushed talk.

“Cloudgazer,” said Caliban, his hand squeezing his friend’s shoulder.

“What?” Balthezar said, straightening up and realizing where Tiresius and Caliban were looking, he did not look himself, knowing that he would be too obvious if he tried. He instead spoke to Tiresius, “Who just came in?”

“Trouble,” said Tiresius, his voice remaining pleasant and the smile never leaving his face, “The reason we’re here, it just so happens.”

“Mind telling us a little more? You didn’t mention there would be trouble tonight.”

“I didn’t think it would happen tonight,” said Tiresius, turning his eyes back towards the lizard and the green dragonborn, “You two ready for a scrap?”

“We could be, but who are they?”

“Best we not talk about it here. The walls have ears,” whispered Tiresius, and Balthezar was uncomfortable with the sudden, mad gleam in the gold’s grey eyes.

“Mr. Tir…” began Balthezar, but before he could finish his thought, the gold dragonborn stood, grabbing hold of the grey cloak he was wearing and, in one smooth movement, shucked it theatrically, letting it flutter to the ground. Underneath, he was wearing a white tunic and a set of brown knee-length slacks. To Balthezar’s surprise, his eyes had begun to glow with a sudden, intense red light.

“Sinners!” Tiresius called out, his voice but a whisper, but magically enhanced somehow. It rattled the bones of every person in the bar, and immediately the three cloaked men were on their feet and on edge. All of a sudden, the very ground began to shake as Tiresius took a step towards the robed strangers. “It’s high time for you to face the consequences of your actions.”

“Cloudgazer?” Caliban said, his arms already wrapped protectively around the green dragonborn, “What…?”

“That’s…” began Balthezar, eyes wide, he recognized this spell, and took in Tiresius’ full, uncovered form. He saw, suddenly, what the dragonborn had been covering up. At the base of his spine, a short, gold-scaled tail whipped back and forth in Tiresius’ apparent rage. Balthezar’s eyes went wide. Dragonborn did not have tails, and the presence of a tail was usually the result of some sort of taint, or even a sign that it was not a dragonborn at all, but a half-dragon. There was no time to confront the mystery, however. It made no sense, but if there was to be a fight, he could solve the problem later. “Get ready for a fight, Caliban.”

With that, Balthezar pulled away from the lizard and reached up to claim the glaive he had leaned up against the wall and reached up to touch the icon of the lit candle around his neck. Immediately the blade of his polearm was wreathed in a bubble of seething force. Caliban, similarly, stood, the purple jewel around his neck flaring to life as his killing intent awakened.

“Well, if it isn’t the traitor,” said one of the robed men who stood around the table. The man’s voice was breathy and low, and seemed unimpressed, “Come to finish what we started, eh?”

“I’ve come to end it,” said Tiresius, “Make peace with Her, and die.”

With that, Tiresius made the first move, raising his arm. From the tip of his finger a sudden flash of fire erupted and, in the next instant, a brilliant streak of flame flew from the gold dragonborn’s claw and impacted hard with one of the robed men. The man screamed suddenly as his robes caught fire, and he patted himself out. Screams erupted throughout the bar as bystanders dived under the tables or fled the establishment at this brazen display of magic. In the excitement, the hood of the man’s robe dropped, and his face was revealed. He appeared to be human, although half of his face was marred by the presence of green, clinging scales up the side of his cheek. His eyes seemed to glow yellow, and once the fire was out, he turned towards Tiresius and hissed, a split tongue flicking out of his mouth.

Balthezar had questions but knew there would be time for answers later. Now was the time for action. His feelings about Tiresius were clashing with this sudden reckless outburst from the man, and he suddenly wasn’t sure if he should have trusted him enough to discuss the intimate details of his personal life. He knew, however, they were in danger here regardless of Tiresius’ ultimate motivations, and so he raised his hands and called upon a divine blessing. Within, he felt the power gathering in his mind – a divine warmth which spread across his brain, a blessing of acuity and observational prowess. Caliban and Tiresius felt the same blessing, and Caliban was the first to rush forward to take advantage of it.

Caliban, not understanding what was going on, but knowing that Balthezar seemed to be taking Tiresius’ side, suddenly hissed back at the strange snake-like humanoid, and then he roared, his eyes going wide in a sudden bloodshot rage. Loping along the bar floor like an animal, the lizardfolk leaped towards the men, teeth first, and tackled one of them to the ground, snapping his jaws at him.

“Kill them!” cried the robed figure still on his feet. He pushed back his own hood and revealed his own scaly face and yellow eyes. A long, snake-like tongue whipped out and in, tasting the air. He then reached into his robe and withdrew a long, bone wand and cried out as he aimed a spell in the direction of where Tiresius and Balthezar were clustered together.

Balthezar saw with horror the bead of red light erupt from the tip of the wand. He recognized it. A fireball. He cried out a warning to the other people in the bar to get away, but it was too late. He knew it would hit soon. He prepared himself to try to dive out of the way but found that he had closed his eyes by reflex.

He stood for a half a second, before he realized that no pain and fire came. He opened his eyes back up and found that Tiresius was smiling. He had his own hands held out and seemed to have caught the bead of fire in his hand, before he spoke a familiar magical incantation and waved his hand, causing the fireball to disappear in a puff of smoke.

“You think to test my power, slaves of the tyrant?” Tiresius’ voice boomed out. Balthezar realized he sounded like a completely different person.

“The only slave here will be you when we use your blood to seal the compact!” screamed the snake-like man, before he cried, “Get them!”

The one on the floor with Caliban suddenly drew a dagger and attempted to plunge it into the lizardfolk’s side. The lizard didn’t bother to dodge, the knife sinking halfway into his thick, horny scales and sticking, hardly causing the lizard pain at all, so numbed was he by his rage. The other one, with his clothes still smoking from Tiresius’ first volley, seemed to prepare himself before his neck began to expand like a frog, and he spat something smoking and caustic towards the sorcerer.

“Tiresius! Look out!” cried Balthezar as he stepped in front of the spray of poison. He raised his arm, letting the limb take the brunt of the cloud of venomous fog which issued forth from the creature they faced. He could feel the caustic nature of the poison, but his own green scales, attuned to poisonous attacks, was hardly damaged at all.

“Thank you Balthezar,” began Tiresius, but he was silenced by an angry look from the green-scaled cleric.

“We will talk later,” he said, before he took his holy symbol in hand and called upon the power of his god. All of a sudden, the air was filled with radiant light as strange celestial entities appeared in the forms of ghostly apparitions. Each angelic creature held a book and seemed to be writing something with a long quill pen, and as soon as they laid eyes upon Balthezar’s enemies, their faces went wide in a calm anger, and as one they dived towards the robed creatures.

Bathed in Radiant light, all three flinched back, hissing as Balthezar approached, cooking them all in the glory of Deneir. From behind, Tiresius raised his own arm and shot another bolt of fire, this time striking the man with the bone wand. He flinched back, wincing in pain, and prepared another shot.

At this point, however, Caliban had finished with the one who lay on the floor, unconscious from the shock of the radiant power suffusing him, and he leaped at the man with the wand before he could fire another spell. He bit the man around the neck, causing him to scream, and the second and third bites caused him to fall with a spray of gore.

The final stranger, with no apparent fear in his eyes, raised his hand, managing to push through the radiant pain surrounding him, and began to gather power. Black, necrotic energy seemed to swirl in the man’s hand as he ran up to Balthezar. The green dragonborn recognized the spell, an evil inversion of healing magic, used by dark clerics and other followers of gods of death and destruction. He knew if that hand touched him, there would be nothing but pain as the life was sucked from his body, and Balthezar readied himself to attempt a dodge.

However, it wasn’t necessary as, before the man could reach him, he was stopped by an invisible force on his face. Balthezar’s eyes went wide as he saw the faint outline of a spectral hand seem to snake out from behind himself, and he turned to see where the origin was. He saw Tiresius, his own hand wreathed in the same black energy, except he had managed to extend his own power out from his body. He followed the spectral hand and saw that it was black, scaly, and clearly draconic.

“May you find fulfillment in Her service in the nine hells,” said Tiresius in draconic as he suddenly closed his hand.

All of a sudden, the man screamed in pain. Through the spectral claw, Balthezar watched in horror as the spell seemed to burn the very life from the man’s body. Veins stuck out through the man’s skin, his cheeks grew gaunt and his eyes grew hollow, and the hair upon his head began to fall out in ugly tufts as the skin of his scalp began to slough off. Soon, the man’s cries died down, along with the magic wreathing his hand, and he fell to the floor as Tiresius’ spectral claw let go of him. There was a sickening crunch as the skeletal figure of the man collapsed to the ground, dead. Slowly, Tiresius pulled back with his hand, and the spectral form of the dragon seemed to sink back into his body.

Silence permeated the building then. With the fighting over, many of the patrons who had dived for cover or who had run out of the bar were peeking in from their hiding places. Many simply went back to drinking, as if skirmishes in barrooms were the most normal thing. Others decided to take their business elsewhere, knowing that the kind of magic Balthezar and Tiresius were slinging around was way above their paygrade.

With a flicker, Balthezar dispelled his guardians, and he gave a silent prayer of thanks for their service. Caliban, his mouth stained with blood, approached his friend, and Balthezar couldn’t help but smile as he took a napkin from the nearby table and began to clean the lizard’s face with clear affection.

“Well, I was right to hire you lot, clearly,” said Tiresius, “Those were some high-ranking fellows. Don’t know if I could have made it out al…”

“Caliban,” Balthezar said, calmly, as soon as he had finished wiping the blood from the lizard’s face, “Grab him.”

The lizardfolk did not need to be told twice as he suddenly lunged forward and threw his arms around the surprised gold dragonkin. With arms pinned at his sides, Tiresius couldn’t make the somatic components of a spell, and soon Balthezar walked up to grab hold of the tip of Tiresius’ snout, keeping his mouth closed so no magic words could issue forth.

“Mr. Tiresius,” said Balthezar, his soft features hardened somewhat by annoyance and suspicion, “I am going to ask you a question and then I am going to let go of your face. If you attempt to cast a spell, Caliban will sink his jaws into your neck, and that will be that. Please answer truthfully. I don’t want any more bloodshed.”

Tiresius, seeming calm even as his life was held in this cleric’s hands, nodded. Balthezar then went on.

“Who were these men?”

He let go of Tiresius’ face, and the gold dragonborn opened his mouth to stretch his jaw before he answered, “Yuan-ti. Disguised as humans to infiltrate Baldur’s Gate.”

“And what were they here to do?”

“Make way for their Goddess’ return.”

At this Balthezar’s hard face melted into one of concern. His eyes traveled down to where the gold’s tail hung at rest behind him. The cleric’s face hardened again.

“Are you affiliated with the cult of Tiamat?”

At the mention of the name, Tiresius’ pleasant expression faded for the first time. His own eyes went suddenly hard, and he considered his answer for a moment.

“Answer the question, sorcerer!” demanded Balthezar.

“I am,” said Tiresius, “Or I was. No more. That’s all behind me.”

“Then why all this?”

“It’s my responsibility,” said Tiresius, “My mess to clean up. These Yuan-ti were likely here to meet someone. I think it was going to be a trade deal. We need to search them.”

“I am doing the talking here, Mr. Tiresius,” said Balthezar, “You aren’t truly a dragonborn, are you?”

Tiresius paused, and said, “Not exactly.”

“Half-dragon?”

“Not that either,” he said, “I’m something unique.”

“Is that why you have divine magic?” asked Balthezar, quietly, “That wasn’t draconic sorcery.”

Tiresius couldn’t help but laugh, “Oh, but it was. If you only knew.”

“I want to know!” demanded Balthezar, his voice growing shrill with frustration.

“Cloudgazer,” Caliban whispered, before he bared his teeth, asking silent permission before he hurt the gold creature.

In answer, Balthezar grabbed the gold by the front of his tunic and pulled his face close. In his anger, Balthezar could feel the bile rising up in his throat and two pillars of green smoke began to billow from either nostril.

“Who are you, Tiresius?” Balthezar said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I want answers.”

Tiresius could smell the rancid stench of Balthezar’s poisonous breath from here and knew he couldn’t survive a direct hit from it. He was caught, and there was no use resisting.

“Not here. I’ll tell you everything, but we have to go. More cultists could arrive any moment.”

“But…” began Balthezar, but somehow, he knew that would be so. The cultists were here for a reason. Surely more would be on their way. “Caliban, drag him into the alley. If he tries to cast something, bite him.”

“Yes, Cloudgazer.”

As the lizardfolk began to drag Tiresius towards the back of the bar, the green dragonborn turned and began to inspect the cultists. He had only read about Yuan-ti before. Snake-like creatures from the deepest parts of tropical regions like Chult, who often sent agents into human settlements in disguise. They were emotionless creatures, he knew, very much like lizardfolk in that respect. However, he knew that while lizardfolk like Caliban were driven by instinct as much as by logic, Yuan-ti were driven by nothing but their own cold calculations. As he searched through their robes, he found the leader’s wand, a normal wand, although one carved from what appeared to be a human bone, and a pouch of expensive spell components, including gems and gem dust for the most expensive of divine rituals. Finally, Balthezar reached into a pocket of the leader’s robes, and found something.

As soon as he touched the smooth surface of the object in the Yuan-ti’s pocket, he felt a strange chill travel up his fingers and settle in his spine. He hesitated, before he grasped hold of it and pulled it into the light. It was a smooth, round orb, seemingly made of glass, although Balthezar knew for a fact it would be far more durable than that. Within, suspended in the clear material, there was a bright red disk, seemingly made of some kind of colored material, which bisected the orb into two sections. The disk was decorated all around with an ouroboros pattern, where five long snake-like creatures had their jaws around the creature in front of it in a circle that went on forever. Each snake, however, had horns and scales in a different configuration. Dragon heads. One for each color of chromatic. Balthezar’s eyes went wide. This artifact was clearly something important.

“In there!” heard Balthezar from a voice outside speaking in draconic. Thinking fast, the cleric stuffed the orb into the pocket of his own robe and began to hurry towards the back of the bar where Caliban had brought Tiresius. He managed to dig five gold pieces out of his pouch and turned quickly towards the bar, tossing them towards the terrified human, Lupin, before he mouthed a quick “Sorry” and disappeared into the back alley.

\--

It was well past midnight by the time Vanya finished leading his new dragonborn partner through the streets of lower Baldur’s Gate. At first Creon was confused by the impromptu tour. The two had hardly spoken since their hasty conversation in the Elfsong Tavern, and the dragonborn was sure that Vanya was looking for a safe house for them to sit and discuss the terms of their partnership further. However, as they circled around and around the city, Creon realized that they weren’t searching. They were patrolling. Vanya was a determined hound as he lurked through the city, rarely taking open roads and opting more often for back alleys and narrow spaces between buildings. Creon learned quickly not to get left behind, or the skinny, dour human would simply leave him stranded in the middle of one of Baldur’s Gate’s roughest neighborhoods.

He understood the purpose of this by the early evening. Vanya wanted to make sure Creon knew his own way around town but had no time to teach the dragonborn slowly. This was a trial by fire, and Creon, with his sharp eyes and investigative sensibility, did not disappoint as he took in the way around the labyrinthine city streets, learning the names of signs and taking in the faces of people as he passed them by.

Eventually, however, the journey came to an end. Vanya stopped abruptly in an alley, and crouched beside a tall refuse bin, before turning back to see if Creon was still there for the first time of the night. The dragonborn simply gave the human a short, sharp nod of his head, before he too crouched down, understanding immediately that they were nearby somewhere dangerous.

The first words Vanya spoke to Creon all day were, “Look, there.”

Creon followed the paladin’s eyes as he said this, and saw, painted on the grey brick wall opposite, was a mess of hasty graffiti painted on the walls. He recognized most of it as the usual sort of scrawls common to members of gangs or bored children, and some of it he knew to be thieves cant codes and signs he knew he wasn’t deep enough in the right circles to read. However, he noticed there was one sign that stood out among the rest. It was relatively small, just a three-inch-wide circle, but it seemed to be in the pattern of a series of snakes devouring one another. Creon wasn’t altogether educated about religious or arcane matters, but that smacked of one or the other to him.

“Snakes?”

“Not snakes, dragons,” said Vanya, slowly, before he raised a hand no higher than mid chest and pointed up, “An ouroboros – a snake eating its own tail – is venerated by Yuan-ti and other scaled ones as a sign of their fell gods. That, however, is not an ouroboros. Those are five heads of a dragon, in the shape of an unholy symbol a Yuan-ti would recognize.”

“Five heads…” muttered Vanya, his eyes narrowing and his lip curling into a snarl, “Tiamat.”

Vanya gave a single nod of his head before he pulled his hood up over his blonde head and began to slink his way through the shadows. Creon was astonished. He had never known anyone who called themselves a paladin move so quietly and with such stealth. He tried his best to keep up, and soon, the two of them came to a small, out-of-the-way side door of the grey brick building.

The door itself was hanging halfway off of its hinges and seemed to be held in place by hastily wrapped wire through the empty hole where the doorknob should be, hooking it to a latch on the frame. Creon approached to investigate, but Vanya’s arm shot out to stop him, before he wordlessly pointed upwards. The silver dragonborn saw another of those draconic circles.

“Sharp eyes, now,” Vanya said, quietly, “any traps?”

Immediately, Creon narrowed his eyes and took in the scene. It was such a simple door, he hardly saw any way for there to be a trap at all, but still, he knew better than to go on assumptions. He scanned the doorframe, and the bottom of the door jam, but saw nothing. The door seemed to be held up by nothing at all in fact. The hinges weren’t even attached. It shouldn’t have been up.

“No traps,” muttered Creon, “But the door…”

“You suspect magic?”

“Could be an arcane lock or something. Be ready to catch it.”

Without any further warning, Creon raised a hand and began to hum. He closed his eyes, tapping into the weave as he had been taught, and found the tune he needed. Vanya narrowed his own eyes but recognized magic when he saw it. He sauntered up to the door and held his hand against it, and when Creon made a sudden fist, there came a faint glow from the door as some enchantment upon it was broken by Creon’s spell. Immediately, the door fell from its hinges and Vanya held it up, making sure it didn’t clatter against the floor.

“An arcane lock,” said Creon, “You don’t put one of those up unless you’re going to be around for a while. Costs money to maintain.”

“This has been around for a while,” Vanya explained as he laid the door against the wall silently.

“And you never sieged it?”

“I haven’t had backup before.”

Creon gave Vanya a sharp look. They weren’t here to clean out a den of cultists, were they? He must have known that Creon was searching for one man in particular. Before he could say something, Vanya rushed inside, and Creon had to forget his complaint and follow quickly. Vanya couldn’t help him if he was dead.

At first, it was too dark for either of them to see. Creon was uneasy. He knew if there was anybody in here with darkvision, they would be at a disadvantage, but Vanya didn’t seem perturbed. He simply continued to creep through the halls of this strange condemned building. Soon, however, Vanya stopped, and Creon halted right before he would smack into the back of the lightly armored paladin.

Knowing they couldn’t talk without alerting the guards, Creon, slowly and silently, drew his weapon. He closed his eyes and concentrated, touching the blade with one of his fingers, and then pointed towards the human. Soon the human heard the dragonborn’s voice invading his head, and he turned his ear towards his companion, curiously.

“Don’t talk out loud. It’s a message cantrip. Just think and you can reply.”

“Alright.”

With the aid of the cantrip, Creon managed to carry on a silent conversation with the paladin.

“Find a way into their lair?” asked Creon.

“Found a hole in the floor with a ladder leading down. It will be dangerous without light.”

“I can make light, but every single eye will be drawn to us.”

“Can you make noise somewhere we aren’t?”

Creon thought, and with one last casting of message, replied, “I can.”

“Then do it,” Vanya said, before he began to silently descend.

Creon was getting used to the brusque manner of this human, but that didn’t mean had had to like it. Nevertheless, he knew better than to complain this deep in enemy territory. He too began to descend after counting a few seconds of silence. The ladder was long. Longer than he thought, and as he descended there was an unmistakable septic odor. This area was at one point a sewer, or perhaps it still was. Even so, Creon heard the quiet sound of Vanya’s boots splashing in liquid before he went silent. Ready for the bottom to arrive, Creon continued his own descent, and soon his own feet touched down in ankle deep water. Both adventurers crouched down and simply listened. For a moment there was silence, but soon, they heard it; hushed whispers. It was coming from down the left-hand corridor, and as they listened, it got louder and louder. Creon recognized it as Draconic, but it wasn’t the homespun drawl of his first language. It was stilted and sibilant, with strange grammar and rhythm. However, he knew the words well enough and thought he might be able to fake the accent.

Silently, he sent a message to Vanya, “Press yourself against the wall. I’m going to lead them up the ladder.”

Vanya didn’t bother to answer, he simply did as he was told. He turned towards the wall of the sewer, knowing that his cloak would blend into the dark bricks. Creon knew his own silvery scales wouldn’t be so easy to hide, but he had his ways. Before he did anything else, he weaved some magic – a simple disguise to hide his silvery scales from sight. He changed his clothes to a darker, more appropriate shade for hanging about in a dark sewer. With that done, Creon was ready to be loud.

Throwing his voice up the ladder was simple enough. Illusion magic came easily to the bardic tradition, and while he was skilled with his sword, he knew that such tricks played to his strengths. He waved a hand, forming the sound of the words in his head, and soon, coming from high above at the top of the ladder, there came a sudden cry.

“Come quick!” came the sound of a sibilant voice crying in draconic from the top of the ladder, “Intruders are getting away, we must chase them down!”

All of a sudden, the voices down the hall went silent, and then there was the sound of feet splashing in the water. As the two adventurers pressed themselves against the wall, they felt bodies passing them by, not even bothering to look over towards them, and they soon heard hands and shoes climbing up the ladder quickly, calling up to the mysterious voice in draconic, asking for more details. Soon, the stampede was gone, on a wild goose chase up above, and they were sitting in silence.

“That won’t keep them long,” said Creon with a message.

“Long enough.”

Vanya wasted no time then. He pulled a lantern from beneath his cloak and, confident that anyone who could see them would likely be able to tell they were there, lit it and narrowed the focus of the beam to illuminate only the ground in front of them. With that small amount of light, they followed the trail of Yuan-ti, until they came to a wider chamber, which was pitch black.

“Light,” said Vanya out loud.

“Got it,” answered Creon, before he pointed his sword into the room and cast light upon the blade. All of a sudden, the entire room seemed to light up, and they could see.

The Yuan-ti’s chamber was a round causeway with three wide tunnels leading from it. Here, they saw that they had set up some kind of crude shrine, with another one of those draconic ouroboros sigils painted above it. Creon, confident that they had at least a moment alone without the danger of being found, stepped further into the room and inspected the shrine. There was a strange, round divot in the center of a square, stone plinth, and he could tell immediately that this was a place of honor. Where was whatever was supposed to go here then?

“I’ve heard a rumor about an object of power entering Baldur’s Gate recently,” whispered Vanya.

“What does that have to do with the man I’m hunting?”

“Nothing. Everything. There are no coincidences in this line of work. If he’s in town, he’s surely here for it.”

“You mean he’s not here?”

“I never said he would be,” muttered Vanya, “But if he’s in town, someone here will know about it.”

“Did you just bring me here because you needed backup?” hissed Creon, rage sneaking into his voice, but Vanya ignored him, instead walking forward to inspect the shrine more closely. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Ignoring Creon’s words, Vanya ran a hand over the shrine and saw that the inside of the divot was circled with clear runes of some sort. He didn’t recognize them but knew at the very least it would be unwise to touch them if he valued his fingers. Instead, he turned around and scanned the room quickly. Having seen nothing to interest him, he then reached up to touch his holy symbol, closed his eyes and began to concentrate.

“Vanya!” snapped Creon.

“Shhh!” he hissed back.

“Don’t you shush me you bastard,” Creon answered back, “what are you…?”

“There,” said Vanya, suddenly, turning his head and raising a hand to point towards the left-most tunnel, “That way. A celestial presence.”

“A… a what?” Creon asked, but Vanya once again ignored him, instead moving through the room and towards where he pointed. The dragonborn sneered but followed. He was already this deep. It was too late to turn back now.

The two of them walked through the corridor, guided by the light from Creon’s glowing sword. The path wound around, and many of the tunnels branched off or were collapsed. Nevertheless, Vanya’s divine senses seemed unerring, and he rushed his way through the sewer, with Creon on his heels. It would be useless to ask Vanya any more questions, Creon realized. He had stepped into a job that Vanya was already on and was the unwitting accomplice in whatever he was doing here. Still, if he could find the information he needed, surely it would all be worth it.

Eventually, the two of them arrived in another long chamber, where several collapsed sewer tunnels had been retrofit into barred prisons. There was a notable uptick in Vanya’s caution, and Creon did his best to follow suit, still disguised as he was in his earth-colored magical illusion. However, he kept the light up, in case he needed to see.

“Is someone there?” the two of them heard, suddenly. Creon’s head perked up immediately. The voice was high pitched and feminine, and had come from further in the prison, from one of the cells. He stepped forward to see, but Vanya raised an arm to stop him, just as the woman spoke again, “You should run! The guard is still here!”

With that, both adventurers went wide-eyed, and were immediately on edge. All of a sudden, there was a loud noise from Vanya’s belt, which pierced the ears of everyone present. He pulled his cloak aside and found that the whip at his belt was screaming at him and vibrating with some sort of power. Vanya wasted no time in gripping his whip and cried, “Ready yourself, Creon!”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Creon muttered before he intensified the radius of the light from his sword. That’s when they saw the guard, or at least where the guard should have been. There were strange ripples in the water and following them to their source revealed nothing but twin circles radiating out from nothing.

“He’s invisible!” cried Creon, flashing the light towards the spot where he saw the ripples converge, “There.”

Vanya took that to heart as he rushed forward, his whip unraveling quickly as he snapped it suddenly towards the space where the invisible creature seemed to be standing. There was a crack, but the tip of the weapon met only air as they saw more footsteps in the water, diving to one side. He tried again, trying to find the creature, but the crack of the whip snapped against nothing.

It was then when they heard a magical incantation. Creon tried to locate the source once again, but found he could not, and before he could manage it, two bright green flashes of light surged out of the darkness, one striking Creon, and the other smashing dead into Vanya. The dragonborn stumbled, pain lancing through his shoulder as the bolt of force wrenched his whole body backwards, but Vanya managed to move in such a way that the blast only glanced against his leather armor, ripping a piece of his cloak off. Following the sight, Creon could finally see their attacker, and his eyes went wide as he did.

It seemed to be in the shape of a human, of a nearly perfect specimen of the species, with thick muscles and massive arms. However, where the creature’s hands should have been instead there seemed to be masses of writhing snakes growing from the wrists, with green smoke rising from the heads where the blasts of eldritch energy had coalesced. The most striking feature, however, was the creature’s head. Instead of a human face, they were greeted by the head of a hissing, black-scaled adder, mouth open and retractable teeth bared as it stared at the two of them with wide eyes.

Creon didn’t need to know much more than that. He leaped forward himself, not bothering to dispel the light upon his sword as he tapped into his training. He moved with a grace that seemed almost out of place on his bulky dragonborn physique, leaping across the room much further than his legs would have normally carried him, and when he arrived, he slashed out, once, and then twice, leaving two long gashes in the chest of the Yuan-ti, who hadn’t expected the silver creature to move so quickly. Smoothly, the dragonborn then entered a defensive posture and turned his head to cry out to Vanya.

“Hit him this time, Paladin!”

It was barely musical, the barest minimum of a tune infused into the order which caused the paladin’s spirits to suddenly soar. The inspiration of a bard, although it was certainly the most no-nonsense one he had ever experienced. Still, with the order in his ears, he cried out, holding out his whip and casting a spell of his own.

The paladin’s whip was suddenly wreathed in a radiant glow, and the tip seemed to glow white hot with the flames of Tyr’s judgement. With eyes wide and wild, Vanya stepped forth, drawing back with his whip and, spurred on by the dragonborn’s encouragement, snapped the whip forward.

The tip struck the malison true, right in the center of the chest, and Creon was disappointed to see that it had caused only a small scratch on the snake-man’s scaly hide. However, this was only the beginning. From the brief contact of the leather against the snake’s skin, the radiant energy entered the malison’s body and the slight split in the Yuan-ti’s skin seemed to grow into a long, ugly slash which bled black blood. The blood then began to glow with a strange, radiant force.

Before the Yuan-ti could register the pain, another crack of the whip against its face came out, this time infused with the inner light of Vanya’s own resolve. From the small nick on the creature’s cheek, smoke began to pour forth, and the very skin seemed to sizzle and blister as the radiant energy exploded out from within. The creature screeched and stepped away, nearly vanquished by two blows from Vanya’s explosive power.

The snake-man said something then, in a deep, droning language that Creon did not recognize. However, Vanya answered the creature back in his own tongue, his own human mouth straining into an ugly posture as he pronounced the abyssal words. There was a sudden look of hatred on the snake’s face, before he waved his hands and cast another spell.

“Damn it!” cried Creon, raising his hands and preparing to dispel the magic, but found that he didn’t need to. The creature’s form melted away into the darkness, invisible once again, but the glowing wound from Vanya’s attack seemed to float in the air, and no matter where the creature ran, it marked him.

“Finish it!” ordered Vanya, and Creon didn’t need to be told twice. He rushed ahead, once again moving with that uncommon grace he had learned from those damnable bards he had been taught by and landed two more attacks against the snake creature. He easily sliced out, laying down a slash perpendicular to the radiant wound, and then a harsh stab right into the center of it. He pushed in with his grand draconic strength, and felt, but did not see, the spray of blood which seemed to coat him. A moment later, the body of the Yuan-ti became visible, as did the blood which violated his silvery scales. The creature fell to its knees as soon as Creon pulled out his sword, and then fell into the filthy sewer water, apparently dead.

Creon breathed in deeply, before he wiped his face and flicked the blood off the side of his hand. Remembering their apparent purpose here, he then turned towards the cell the malison had been guarding and saw, within, a figure huddled in the corner.

She couldn’t have been taller than two and a half feet, with dark chestnut skin and knotted black hair tied up into some semblance of a bun. She was wearing a tattered dress that might have been green once, and clutched to her chest was a large, white book, unnaturally white in this filthy tunnel. Creon’s eyes went wide with pity for this prisoner, and immediately began to search for a key on the body of the Yuan-ti.

“Don’t bother,” said Vanya, kneeling down before the cell and producing a velvet sleeve full of oddly shaped picks and hooks. Creon immediately recognized them as a set of lockpicking tools.

“Are you really a paladin?” deadpanned Creon. Vanya simply ignored him as he went to work on the lock.

“Who are you?” asked the halfling woman after a moment, before she stood up. She had one shoe on, the other having been lost somewhere.

“Creon Nastiar,” said Creon, before he gestured towards his companion, “And the quiet one is Vanya. Not much for conversation.”

As if on cue, Vanya managed to spring the lock, and the barred door swung open. Creon wasted no time pushing his way inside and stepping forward, offering a hand gently for the halfling to take.

“Ma’am,” he said.

“Th-thank you,” she said, reaching up to take the dragonborn’s hand, “My name is Rosalind.”

“Rosalind, pleasure to meet you.”

Creon shook the halfling’s hand then, before leading her out of the cell. She turned her face to stare at the dead malison, and by the hard expression on her face without much apparent fear, Creon knew instantly that this woman was of tougher stock than most. Judging by that book, she likely had some power to her.

All of a sudden, more sibilant voices sounded out through the tunnel. Creon and Vanya were instantly on edge, and Rosalind seemed to sigh and clutch the book tighter to herself.

“What do we do?” she asked, looking up at her two rescuers.

“Escape,” said Vanya, turning to Creon, “Do you have a means to get out of here?”

“I can get two of us out,” said Creon, “But that’s it.”

“Good,” he said, before he lifted up the hood of his cloak and turned away from the two of them, “Go. I can sneak past the rest.”

“W-wait! You can’t go back alone!” cried Rosalind before she began to rummage through a pouch at the Yuan-ti’s side.

Vanya said nothing, but Creon said, “She’s right. One of ‘em’s bound to spot you.”

“If this is where I die, then so be – What?”

Vanya was taken off guard when Rosalind suddenly rushed forward, a magic word on her lips, and jumped up to slap the paladin on the ass. Vanya flinched at the sudden strike, and turned, as if the halfling had attacked him, but found that there was something sticking to his backside, he tried to look down to see what she had stuck to him, but found that his body was quickly becoming ethereal, and finally became completely invisible. Creon gave a little click of his tongue, impressed, and he turned to see that Rosalind was packing the little block of gum arabic back into the Yuan-ti’s component pouch and rubbing her eyelash where she had plucked one of her own out. The spell components for invisibility, Creon vaguely recalled.

With that, Rosalind grabbed hold of Creon, and the dragonborn, trusting that Vanya knew what to do with a good hour of invisibility, took her by the hand and raised his sword to focus on the air in front of him. Suddenly, he sliced a silvery, square gate out of the space before him with three deliberate strokes, and Creon stepped through it, with little Rosalind in tow. With one step, they were safe, back in Baldur’s Gate.

\--

“As much as I love a good dungeon crawl,” said Hotspur as she and Ms. Shortbread stood at the yawning mouth of the Greylash family tomb, “What exactly does this have to do with where the bastard is now?”

Ms. Shortbread smiled broadly, the sides of her cheeks and corners of her eyes crinkling pleasantly as she tilted her head sweetly to one side. She had changed out of her modest black dress, but what she had changed into wasn’t that much more practical for tomb raiding. She had a knee-length skirt on, with leggings underneath covering up her thin legs, and tall boots. Over it, she was wearing simple leather armor, and had a bandolier around her shoulder where she had a collection of knives stored. At her hip was her cane, tied to her belt, as if it was the scabbard of a sword – which it was, Hotspur reminded herself.

Hotspur herself was dressed in her usual assortment of mis-matched, filthy armor she usually wore when it was time to go out in her adventuring persona. The breastplate was scuffed, the clothes underneath bore all the rips and tears of prolonged use, and the boots were thick and dirty, but were the kind that would likely outlive her if she took care of them right. Only her weapons shone with much care, especially the black-bladed greataxe she held in her green hands. As usual, half of her face was covered by a helmet which concealed the more human-looking parts of her face.

“Vanya Greylash,” began Ms. Shortbread as she approached the open door of the white-stone tomb, “He’s an enigma, he is.”

“Coulda’ fooled me.”

“His poor sister fell to an attack by monsters, you know that much,” said the human woman as she reached up to adjust the neat bun she had tied her white hair up into, “But what do you know of the Greylash family?”

Hotspur paused at this, frowning around her tusks, before she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Rich, snotty, touchy about nobility, a lot like any other family of their station.”

“And historically?” said Ms. Shortbread as she began to walk into the mouth of the tomb.

Hotspur followed, confident that Ms. Shortbread’s sharp eyes would largely alert them to whatever danger they found down here.

“I have a feeling you’ll probably tell me.”

Ms. Shortbread laughed lightly, before she began to descend down a worn stone staircase leading down into the depths of the earth. Hotspur followed, her orcish heritage allowing her to see fairly clearly in the dark.

“Don’t you need light down here?” asked Hostpur, but she received her answer a moment later as they descended to the bottom of the stair, and she saw torchlight in the distance.

“No,” she said, “The boy usually leaves a light on.”

“The boy? Vanya?” asked Hotspur, “He’s not here, is he?”

“Oh no, he’s out gallivanting. I made sure before I led you here. You aren’t the most subtle.”

“He lives in a stinking tomb?”

“No one would look for him here,” said Ms. Shortbread, smiling and shrugging her shoulders, “Unless you knew the Greylashes like I know them.”

With that, the old woman reached up to her bun as she walked forward. She withdrew a long hairpin with a strangely jagged tip and, in the middle of the corridor, about halfway to the light, she crouched down and began to probe along the floor. She smiled a moment later when she felt what she was looking for, and soon, jammed the pin into an opening in the ground that Hotspur’s eyes had missed. Immediately, Hotspur heard a sudden wind coming from in front of the two of them, and she saw arrows sailing from tiny holes in the wall and strike the wall opposite. Each arrow had a claw-like tip and a rope attached to the back-end, and as she watched, the trap began to reset itself, and the arrows were pulled quickly back into the holes from whence they came.

“Nasty trap. Rips pieces out of you,” said Ms. Shortbread, “Then he would know you were here by what you left behind.”

“Sounds rather cruel for a paladin.”

“The Greylashes are not a paladin bloodline,” she answered, retrieving her pin and walking forward as she stuck it back into her hair, “You’ll see in a moment.”

As the two women walked forward, Hotspur on edge and ready for anything at all to jump out at them, they finally entered into the lit up burial chamber of the Greylash tomb. The torches lit in the wall sconces gave the long shelves of bones of the Greylash ancestors an eerie air, and each pile of dried bones turning to dust was covered with a rotting shroud, if it hadn’t already been eaten away to nothing but the passage of time. Hotspur looked around, first at one shelf of dessicated skeletons, and then to the other, and her mouth turned up in a sneer.

Before she could ask Ms. Shortbread what they were doing here once again, there was a sudden screech to her left, coming from one of the lower shelves. The half-orc felt a hand begin to close around her boot and she stepped away just in time to see something moving down below. She swore loudly and jumped away, and her cry was echoed by another screech, and then a moan, and what sounded like a cough. Hotspur looked around and saw that all around, in many of the tomb’s shelves, the fresher corpses had awoken, and were trying to crawl towards her, arms outstretched. Hotspur raised the axe, ready to defend herself, but Ms. Shortbread simply walked up and placed her hand on Hotspur’s.

“No need for that, dearie,” she said, “Killing them would only let Vanya know we were here. There’s no danger.”

“N-no danger? Those are…!” stammered Hotspur, before she realized that the zombies surrounding them weren’t coming any closer. They were reaching and struggling, but each of their limbs, and around each of their necks there were thick iron bands tied to the wall with hefty chains.

“I-Is he…?” Hotspur whispered, hardly believing what she was seeing, “…keeping them?”

“And why not? They’re family,” said Ms. Shortbread, before she turned to one corner where another of those zombies was struggling against her bonds.

This corpse was even fresher than the others, clearly the most recently interred. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen when she died, and while her hair had mostly corroded away to nothing, it had once been a pale flaxen color. The girl’s body struggled against the strongest bonds of all, as if she had been tied up with quite a bit more care than the rest. This allowed Hotspur to approach and inspect her closely. Her body had been ravaged by grievous wounds. Bite marks ran up and down her neck, arms, and chest. Human teeth. Hotspur read the name beneath her place and raised an eyebrow when she did.

“Emma,” she said, “His sister. Ms. Shortbread, what is this?”

“There’s more to see. This way.”

At this, Ms. Shortbread continued walking through the ossuary of the Greylash tomb. As they wandered through, Hotspur began to see evidence of past struggles all around. Bones turned to dust by hard impacts or burned with holy light could be found here and there. Vanya had been busy cleaning out his family’s tomb, clearly.

“The skeletons are harder to contain, so when they get too detached from the rest of the body, he simply destroys them,” said Ms. Shortbread.

“But why keep them in the first place? They’re not his family anymore. They’re just… monsters now.”

As if in answer, Hotspur found the place where Vanya Greylash slept during the night. It was a bare mattress laid on the floor of the family’s ossuary, with a shrine set up nearby, and the leavings of food and drink all around. It resembled homeless dens that Hotspur had seen sometimes in the Dock Ward back home in Waterdeep when they had to walk among the lower classes. The most striking thing was the noise. She could clearly hear the moans of the zombies from here. Vanya Greylash must have been mad!

“I came from here before your meeting with Lady Greylash. I don’t know how much she knows about this, but from what I understand,” began Ms. Shortbread, kneeling down and inspecting one of the bones scorched by holy fire, “There is a curse upon the Greylash family. A curse of undeath. In exchange for power, they must give their bodies over to the service of some necromancer or other. They were given grand wealth, and became the state torturers for Baldur’s Gate, due to their cruelty and skill with such things. Eventually, the necromancer was defeated, killed, or simply left the family behind after getting what he wanted, but the curse remains.”

“He took this oath because…”

“Because that’s how his Sister died,” she answered, “She found out about all of this, and confronted the family about it. It is the deep dark secret of the Greylash family, and so… they forced her to spend the night in the crypts, executing her, and said that the wounds left behind were from a monster. Now, they tell the story about her being attacked.”

“But they said that Vanya saw the whole thing.”

“He did. The family’s story is true enough. Vanya snuck down into the crypt to find his sister, and saw zombies eating her,” said Ms. Shortbread, “It’s my thinking that they placed him into the sanitarium to convince him he imagined the whole thing, or at least to forget that they were the ones who did it. Perhaps they think they succeeded, but I know better. He just knows that if he tries to expose the curse openly, the whole Greylash clan will turn on him. Alliances with Thay, even old alliances, are not diplomatically acceptable in the current climate.”

“Thay?”

“A country far away from here. A mageocracy. Tend to use necromancy as a source of cheap labor.”

Hotspur furrowed her eyebrows under her helmet, before she stepped forward and inspected the little shrine to Tyr. It consisted of a small devotional statuette with an unlit votive in front of it, and a book of the universal laws of the Maimed God. As a bookmark, there was a gold locket, which had become somewhat worn from the settings. Hotspur’s curiosity screamed at her to take it and see what was inside, but she knew the fewer things they touched here the better.

“I’m starting to understand this Vanya fellow a little better,” said Hotspur, “He has to break the curse all by himself. No one is helping him.”

“He won’t allow anyone to help him. It is part of his code that he take all the burdens of the world onto himself.”

“Well that’s stupid,” snapped Hotspur, her mouth a deep frown, “The fool isn’t a wizard or a cleric. He can’t hope to undo something like this on his own.”

Ms. Shortbread smiled at this, and Hotspur could feel her frown deepen any further.

“What?” she said, finally, crossing her arms, “You’ve been drip-feeding me information all day. I would appreciate you being forthright with me for once.”

“Oh you’re no fun,” she said, before she began to walk out of the ossuary and into the front of the tomb, where the zombies were still struggling to grab her, “But fine. He’s been in contact with me to try to find someone who can break his family’s curse. He doesn’t want to go through official channels, however. Wizards tend to want to stay above-board, since they rely on publicly trading spells between one another. Clerics – at least the ones he would rather be affiliated with – would be compelled to interview the family and discover the source of the blight on them. He needed someone else. Someone good, yes, but with less… socially acceptable magic.”

“A… bard?” she asked, wracking her brain for other forms of magic she was familiar with, “Or a sorcerer?”

“Might have worked, but even then, Vanya’s personality wouldn’t mix with a bard, and Sorcerers don’t tend to be scholars. No, he needed a recipient of a pact.”

“A Warlock?”

“Exactly. I happened to know that a Warlock came to town about a week ago and disappeared. He’s been searching for the poor girl ever since. In the meantime, I’ve been… playing the field, so to speak. Lady Greylash was more than willing to pay me for information about her boy, and now she’s interested in how to get him married to someone – anyone – so he will cast off this silly religious obsession and be a proper patriar.”

“Taking her money with no intention of helping her? You’re a scoundrel, you know that?” Hotsper said, with a wry smile.

“How rude!” said Ms. Shortbread, frowning and wagging a finger towards the half-orc, “I’ll have you know I’m in this for the good of everyone. That’s why I brought you in on this. I trust you and your friends. You’re good people, and you’re proven quantities after that business a couple of years ago. Perhaps you’re the people Vanya has been searching for.”

“Alright. So, if we find this warlock, we find Vanya?”

At this point, the two of them had exited the chamber, passing the zombies by. Ms. Shortbread hopped nimbly over the hook trap, and Hotspur just barely remembered and stepped over it with her long legs. Soon, the two of them were climbing the stairs back out of Vanya’s lair.

“It likely won’t be as simple as that,” said Ms. Shortbread, taking in a deep breath of the chilly air in the cemetery, “but we should keep our ears out for anything strange going on.”

It was at that moment when Hotspur heard a sudden noise in her ear which caused her to flinch. It was the clearing of a throat, and Ms. Shortbread turned to stare up at her, curious. She had heard nothing.

_“Hello! Oh drat I shouldn’t lead with… I mean… uh… This is Balthezar. Hi. We’ve had some excitement and we’re currently in hiding. We’re in…”_

Abruptly, the magic faded, leaving Hotspur’s eardrums to hum with the aftereffect of the sending. She waited for a moment, before she held the side of her head and replied, “Where? You’re in where? What did you DO Balthezar?”

“Trouble?” asked Ms. Shortbread, intrigued immediately.

“An earlier client. I knew there was more to that old man than met the eye. Come on.”

“Where to?” she asked, following after the half-orc eagerly.

“The Blade and Stars,” said Hotspur, holding her forehead, exhausted already, “I can’t help with this Vanya thing if half my party is dead, can I?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a respite from all of that excitement, Balthezar interrogates Tiresius, and Creon gets to know the young halfling girl he has just rescued.

“Oh drat,” said Balthezar as the spell faded and the last of Hotspur’s angry words rang in his ears, “Twenty-five words or less. You would think I would be better at being concise.”

Balthezar and Caliban had found for themselves a darkened warehouse nearby in an industrial district. Balthezar sensed no people near, and Caliban smelled no one, and so the two of them dragged Tiresius inside and sat him down on a crate. They had him gagged and tied up, but the old dragonborn seemed calm as he watched Balthezar pace and fret and watched Caliban stare at the cleric with one eye helplessly while he stared at their prisoner with the other.

“Alright, calm down Balthezar,” muttered the green dragonborn to himself as he paced. He slapped himself on either side of his face, and breathed in deeply, before clasping his hands together and praying to Deneir for guidance. The slight glow he felt within let him know that his God was with him, and that feeling calmed him somewhat as he turned to face Tiresius.

“Caliban. I think we’re ready to hear the whole thing,” said Balthezar, “Ungag him.”

Caliban nodded his head then, before he crawled forward and reached up to pull the gag from Tiresius’ snout. Immediately the Lizard drew up to his full height, stepping in between the two dragonkin, just in case the gold immediately shot off a spell somehow. When he didn’t, Balthezar placed a calm hand on Caliban’s shoulder and stepped forward.

“Mr. Tiresius,” said Balthezar, “As quickly as you can, explain yourself.”

With that, the cleric seemed to toss something into the air, and a flash of light fell down upon them all. Tiresius felt a pull at the back of his head, as if something had blocked up his mind, and he knew what had happened. He would be compelled to tell the truth.

“I will,” he said, and Balthezar visibly relaxed. The zone of truth was working. Tiresius began from the beginning, “My name is Tiresius. I have no family name.”

“Are you from Tymanther?”

“I was born there, but taken away as a child,” said the gold, “I was raised by the cult of Tiamat in an outpost five days north of Red Larch. I believed they were grooming me to rule, but that was a lie.”

“What are you?”

“Hard to say,” Tiresius said with a smile, “I suppose you would call me a… demigod.”

Both Caliban and Balthezar were rendered speechless at this. Caliban tilted his head and turned to Balthezar, asking only, “Cloudgazer?”

“I don’t know, my friend,” said Balthezar, and it was the truth, “Explain. What do you mean?”

“I would need to start from the beginning.”

“We clearly have time.”

“Alright then,” said Tiresius, and he began, “I have the blood of Tiamat within me.”

“The blood of…” muttered Balthezar with wide eyes, “It can’t be! You’re not related to…?”

“’Fraid so.”

“But how is that possible?” demanded Balthezar, before he looked away, puzzling through the implications of what that must have meant, “She despises all creatures but dragons. For that matter, half-dragons can’t even breed true. Dragonborn and dragons aren’t…”

“That’s what everyone thought, but the world had other ideas. You said it yourself. Draconic bloodlines exist despite half-dragons being sterile,” explained Tiresius with a wan little smile, “The addition of divinity into the mix – even evil divinity – caused a little hiccup in the natural order of things. I don’t exactly know the full story – they kept me in the dark for most of my childhood – but I know that I am only about four generations removed from the five headed bitch.”

Balthezar stared for a moment, with wide-eyed astonishment. He found that he had been holding his breath and forced himself to breathe out. He then cleared his throat and thought of another question to try.

“Er…” he stammered, losing his nerve, intimidated by this creature in front of him, “Are you still with the cult?”

“No!” Tiresius answered quickly, “Never again.”

“But… they must have revered you as a prophet, or the second coming of their God.”

“You don’t know what that means to these people, Cloudgazer,” said Tiresius, “Nothing happy or beautiful exists that doesn’t ultimately belong to Her. They had me, and they were grooming me for their purposes. A sacrifice. I was to be an offering to Tiamat and be part of a ritual to release her from her prison in the nine hells. Once I realized what they wanted, I ran.”

“Gods…” muttered Balthezar.

Tiresius continued, “It took me a long time to buck the brainwashing they put me through. I realized all the horrible things I had done in service of the cult and went into hiding for years. I only recently emerged, because I had heard of something. Something big.”

“What?”

“That trinket you got in your pocket, for starters,” said Tiresius, his smile returning in a flash of white teeth.

“O-oh,” Balthezar said, knowing that it would be futile to try to lie under the effects of his own zone of truth, and so he pulled the strange red orb from where he had hastily stashed it in his flight from the bar. Once again, as soon as he touched it, a chill ran up and down his arm, and he realized that it seemed to radiate some kind of fearsome dread in him. “What is this?”

“An artifact of power,” said Tiresius, “I don’t know what it does, but if the cult wants it, it’s nothing good.”

“Sure wish we had someone who could identify it,” muttered Balthezar, before he sat himself down on the floor and instead placed the orb on the ground and began a ritual. The zone of truth faded soon after as Balthezar ceased concentrating upon it.

“Cloudgazer?”

“I believe you aren’t in it to hurt us,” said Balthezar, “Caliban. Untie him.”

The lizardfolk nodded his head and soon set to work untying the knots holding Tiresius down. The gold dragonborn thanked the lizardfolk with a pleasant smile, before he stood and sat down on the floor with a grunt in front of the orb, so that it was between him and Balthezar.

“Checking something?” he asked.

“Doing what I can,” Balthezar said, before he opened his eyes, revealing a supernatural glow to them as he attuned his vision to detecting magic. He looked up and down at Tiresius first, before he turned his gaze down towards the orb.

It was as if he was staring into the bright corona of the sun. He flinched back, having to shield his eyes from the glare of this artifact of ancient power. He gasped, and immediately Caliban was hovering over his shoulder, ready to attack the artifact for hurting his friend. However, Balthezar waved the lizard away and reached forwards to pick up the orb, inspecting it as close as he could while squinting from the brightness.

“A-abjuration,” he said.

“Protective magic?” asked Tiresius.

“Yes, abjuration can be used to keep things out… or to keep something held within. There’s most certainly something within this orb. Something that should never see the light of day. I sense a… presence within the orb. Something frightful. Something I want nothing to do with.”

Quickly, Balthezar placed the orb on the ground and pulled his hand away, and immediately, the sense of dread faded away. He frowned, inspecting his own hand where he had touched the glass, but saw no blemishes or marks upon his skin, and no new touch of magic in his body.

“So, what do we do with it?” asked Tiresius.

“I thought you would know,” said Balthezar, his eyes turning to meet Tiresius’, “It’s your cult after all.”

“I ain’t been with them for near on thirty years, Cloudgazer. I’m not up on the specifics of their plans.”

“But you must know something about, er, procedures they might follow? Perhaps you know where they might have been planning to take it.”

“That’s how I knew to lead you to the Blade and Stars to get this thing. I didn’t know exactly what we were going to find.”

Balthezar seemed to think for a moment, staring down at the orb. As he thought, he could feel Caliban crouching down to get close to him, placing one of his claws on Balthezar’s shoulder. Balthezar soon reached up to touch his friend’s hand with his own, thinking hard about what to do.

“We have to keep it away from the cult, that much is clear,” said Balthezar.

“Agreed,” Tiresius said.

“Perhaps it would be best to simply leave town with it.”

“They’ll come after us. They’ll be able to track it.”

“Not necessarily,” said Balthezar with a smile, “I’ve some tricks up my sleeve.”

With that, Balthezar breathed in deeply and the glow in his eyes faded. Soon, he began to weave another spell, and Tiresius was impressed to find that it was not a Cleric’s magic. Balthezar was handling the weave itself, waving his arms around the orb to reconfigure its aura to his liking. Soon, he seemed satisfied and brushed his hands together at the job well done.

“There,” he said.

“What did you do?”

“A magical aura,” said Balthezar, “or rather, a nonmagical one. I’ve masked the magic upon this item. If anyone tries to detect what it is, it will register as a mundane object.”

“That won’t help if they know what it looks like and try to scry for it.”

“It’s true, but this is what I can do for now,” said Balthezar, before he reached down to pick it back up. However, he hesitated for just a moment. That was all the time Caliban needed.

The lizard suddenly snatched his own claw forward and grabbed the orb away from Balthezar before he could touch it. Balthezar flinched back, wide-eyed, and turned to face the lizard, who was sniffing the orb in his hands.

“Caliban? What…!”

“Orb is dangerous,” said Caliban, nodding his head, “Cloudgazer will not be in danger.”

At that, Caliban, heedless of the shiver that had run up his spine when he picked up this object, placed the orb into the light coin purse hanging from his belt. Tiresius had to laugh, charmed by the exchange.

“Well, it makes sense,” said Tiresius, “Nobody will want to tempt the wrath of a fearsome beast like our Caliban here.”

“Even so! It’s a magical artifact,” said Balthezar, “Who knows what it does?”

“Then it doesn’t matter who holds it. Whoever carries it will get the brunt of whatever it is. We just happen to have a volunteer,” answered Tiresius, standing up and patting the lizard on the back. Caliban made no noise, but one eye swiveled to stare at the gold dragonborn.

“Where is Hotspur?” asked Caliban as his other eye swiveled to look towards Balthezar.

The green dragonborn stood as Caliban said this, already fretting over his friend’s well-being, but he answered, “I’m not sure. I don’t think my full message came through. Perhaps they went back to the Blade and Stars.”

“That place is bound to be crawling with cultists by now,” said Tiresius, “We should get out of town now.”

“Hotspur is our friend,” snapped Balthezar, stepping forwards until the tip of his snout was an inch away from the gold dragonborn’s whiskers, “We don’t leave without her.”

Tiresius stared at the soft face of this other dragonborn as it began to attempt to twist into something resembling a scowl. He seemed more worried than angry, however, and Tiresius couldn’t help but smile, reaching up to place a hand on Balthezar’s shoulder and nodding his head.

“I like you, Cloudgazer,” he said, simply, “I’ll trust your judgement. Back to the Blade and Stars it is.”

\--

Five hundred feet is a very long way. Creon and Rosalind could feel the sudden disorientation as they were in a sewer one moment, and in the middle of an alley in Baldur’s Gate the next. It took Creon a moment to remember where he had sent them as he looked around, and silently thanked Vanya for giving him that silent tour of the whole lower city. They were in a narrow alley. A high wooden fence barred one entrance, and a ratty hinged gate leading out into the street stood on the other side. Above, he could see windows where people lived, but no one seemed to be looking down at them. He breathed in and out, before he leaned up against the bricks of the building next to them and slid down, until he was sitting on the pavement of the alley.

Rosalind, however, seemed to be fretting at once, looking around with confusion as she hugged her book to herself.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Still in Baldur’s Gate. Don’t ask me the street names yet. I don’t know ‘em,” said Creon, sheathing his sword calmly, “Vanya can come find us.”

The halfling seemed to calm herself down a moment later, before she too plopped herself down on the ground and looked herself over in the secondhand light from the streetlamps on the other side of the fence. She frowned at the state of her clothing, and at her missing shoe. She reached a hand up to touch her hair and when she found a tangled, wild mess, she made a sound of disgust.

“Those beasts!” she muttered. Her voice was high pitched and held a very rustic accent to Creon’s ears. As he watched her, she seemed to switch moods all of a sudden, hugging her book to her front to cover up her ripped dress and smiling up at the dragonborn, “Thank you, sir Dragonborn. I don’t know what I would have done.”

“No problem, ma’am,” said Creon, “But Vanya’s the one you should thank once he tracks us down. He was the one looking for you.”

“The human, right? With the whip? Funny sort of weapon. Loud too,” she said, before she opened her book up in her lap and reached into the component pouch she had stolen from the Yuan-ti. She found what she was looking for a moment later, a simple feather that might have been used as a component for a featherfall spell, and she smiled before she began to use it as a quill. Creon looked over her shoulder and noticed that the pages of this tome seemed to be completely blank, and as she scratched the feather across the page, text seemed to appear without the need for ink. She muttered as she wrote, “Rescued from those beasts… by two nice men by the names of Vanya and… Say!”

“Hm?” Creon answered, pointedly looking away before she could look up and see that he was reading over her shoulder.

“Your name was Creon, right? Creon Nasty Tart?”

“Nastiar,” Creon corrected her, “It’s draconic.”

“Nastiar, sure. Is that your family name?” she said, making idle conversation as she wrote.

“No,” explained Creon, crossing his arms, “Nastiar’s my given name. Creon is my clan. Call me Creon.”

“Oh! Clan! Interesting!” she cried, smiling, as she continued to write, “Why do you go by Creon instead of Nastiar?”

“Are you going to be writing all of this down?” Creon asked pointedly.

“Huh?” Rosalind said, looking over at Creon, and then down at the book, before she realized what he meant. She closed the book, then, smiling, and continued, “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just have to keep my patron informed.”

“Your… patron?”

“Yes! This book is my connection to a celestial patronage. All it wants me to do is tell my story.”

“So, you’re a warlock?”

“But nicer!” she insisted, “I saved a Unicorn from one of my uncle’s bear traps once. It was magical! Nobody believed me, though, so I thought maybe it was just a horse with a branch stuck to its head… until this showed up on my doorstep one day!”

She held up the supernaturally white book. It had gold leaf on the edges of the pages, and the cover’s corners were capped in bright, untarnished silver. There were no words or icons on the front.

“At first it didn’t do anything. It was completely blank, but I’m the only one who can open it, so I started using it as a journal, and wouldn’t you know it! I started to gain powers. I realized later that it was thanks from… someone for rescuing that poor unicorn. They wanted me to tell my story and, well, if I wanted to have a story to tell I needed to leave home and start traveling. I’ve been wandering around for a while. Kind of embarrassed I got caught by those snake-guys though.”

Creon blinked his eyes, before he turned away and shrugged his shoulders. This halfling seemed like she didn’t have a deceptive bone in her body, and so he believed this story, even considering how ridiculous it was.

“Traveling alone’ll do that,” said Creon, “Some things you can handle on your own just fine. Other things, you need a team.”

“How about you? What are you doing in Baldur’s Gate?”

At this Creon’s eyes narrowed and he looked towards her. She seemed to be in the middle of opening her book back up, but as soon as she noticed him staring at her, she gave a bashful smile and closed it back up. Once he was satisfied she wasn’t writing any of this down, he began.

“Looking for someone. Vanya was supposed to be helping me, but…”

“What kind of someone? Can I help?”

“Maybe,” muttered Creon, “You see another dragonborn around town? Gold colored instead of silver like me. Older, whiskers like a gold dragon, and curved horns?”

Rosalind thought for a moment, before she shook her head, “I haven’t seen another dragonborn in town. I’m sorry.”

“Damn you Vanya,” hissed the dragonborn, crossing his arms.

“But! But, but, but!” she said, suddenly excited, “Maybe I can help anyway!”

At this, Creon slowly turned back towards her and said, “Talk.”

“Well, I heard some things while I was kept prisoner,” she said, “They’re dragon cultists, aren’t they?”

Creon nodded his head.

“Okay, well. I heard them talking about… a delivery? Something they had to go get. I think they were going to go get it tonight even! Maybe it wasn’t a thing, but a person. Does that help?”

“A delivery,” muttered Creon, before he hardened his expression, “Where?”

“One condition!” she suddenly demanded with a wide smile.

Creon turned towards her fully, his narrowed eyes widening in a sudden rage. His teeth gnashed together, and his crossed arms tightened, his claws digging into his own scales.

“What?” he asked, his voice dark, warning her.

She did not heed the danger as she blithely said, “I never met a dragonborn before. I’m curious! Is it true you grow up with cute nicknames?”

Creon was silent for another instant. The longer they sat here gabbing, the less time they had to chase after these cultists and whatever they were delivering. He considered snapping at her or trying to explain that he was in a hurry, but instead he breathed in and said, “Fine, yeah. That’s true.”

“What did they call you?” she asked, eyes bright with curiosity as she smiled even wider.

Creon knew – he just _knew_ – that if he gave his childhood name here and now, he would regret it. He gritted his teeth and looked away, trying to think up an excuse not to tell her. He considered threatening her, lying to her, or even just walking away from the information, but none of those options would be as fast as simply telling the girl what she wanted to know. With his hands clutching hard to his arms, he breathed in and out in a sigh and, under extreme duress, spoke.

“J’akhtu,” he said, in draconic, hoping that would be enough.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means…” Creon began, feeling his face go cold as he could feel his breath freeze in his throat reflexively, “Snout.”

“Snout!?” cried Rosalind, before she laughed, “Why’d they call you that?”

“B-because…” began Creon before he stopped himself, snarling, “Never you mind. I told you what you want to know, now tell me where the delivery will be.”

“Ok, Snout,” she said, with a smile, “The Blade and Stars.”

“Don’t call me…!” he snapped, before he realized what she said, “The Blade and Stars? Where’s that?”

“In Eastway. If we’re still in the lower city, it shouldn’t be far from here. Once Vanya gets back…”

However, Creon did not wait for her to finish. He had already stood up and was walking towards the fence.

“Hey!” she cried with a frown, “Where are you going?”

“The Blade and Stars. I helped Vanya with his task, and I got what I needed. I’m done with him.”

“You can’t go there alone!” she cried, grabbing hold of the back of Creon’s pant leg, “The cult is there! You’ll be killed.”

“If my quarry is there, then I need to be there,” said Creon, pulling his leg away from the girl.

“Then let me come with you!”

“You were in a prison cell not too long ago.”

“It doesn’t take much for a warlock to get back on her feet!” she cried, before she reached down and tore the remaining shoe off her foot, tossing it into the alley and continuing with both feet bare. Creon noticed the light coating of fuzz on top of both, as well as the darker, leathery texture of the skin on the soles of her feet. “That’s better. No use hobbling around with one shoe.”

“This is going to be dangerous. You got a weapon?”

“I got this,” she insisted, holding up the bag of reagents and components she took off of the body of her jailer, “I got more than enough in here to work my magic.”

Creon looked back at her, before he narrowed his eyes one last time. Even so, he breathed in and out, recognizing in her the sort of spirit that would refuse to simply stay behind. He knew he was the same way deep down. If he refused her, she would simply come along anyway, and she could turn herself invisible, so he might not even know she was there until it was too late.

“Stay close,” said Creon, “And stay behind me.”

“Got it, Snout,” she said, and smiled at the small flinch which came over the dragonborn’s face as she said it.

Soon, the silver dragonborn, knowing arguing would waste too much time, opened the fence gate before he stepped through, followed soon after by the halfling in tattered clothes but with a look of excited determination upon her face. The two of them began to move as quickly as they could through the city streets towards the Blade and Stars, sticking to the shadows as they did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threads converge at the Blade and Stars as friends become enemies, enemies become uneasy allies, and giant man-eating snake people terrorize Baldur's Gate!

Since the troubles earlier that night, the Blade and Stars had since closed down. The windows were dark, the place seemed empty, and the door was tightly shut. If it were not the city of Baldur’s Gate one might have thought that the place had simply shut down for the night, but Baldur’s Gate only got rowdier as the night went on, and a place closing so early made no sense.

The first group to arrive, approaching from the alley behind the bar, was Balthezar, flanked by Tiresius and Caliban. Balthezar, never the stealthiest fellow, cleared his throat before he tried to press himself against the wall, flinching as he heard the grind of his armor upon the bricks. He called out, “Oh!” before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Er…” whispered Tiresius, “Perhaps it would be better if we stayed outside and observed for a while. I can’t imagine any of us is particularly stealthy.”

“N-no, of course. As soon as we see Hotspur, we’ll flag her down and run,” said Balthezar, “Then we get out of the city. Is that acceptable?”

Caliban and Tiresius both nodded their heads.

“Good. In the meantime, be qui-“

Before he could finish his sentence, Balthezar lifted his hand as if he was delivering a point in a lecture to Caliban. The gesture knocked against a bucket nearby that the bar used to clean off the alley, and it tipped over, clattering to the pavement. The green dragonborn clenched his jaw, going wide-eyed, as both Tiresius and Caliban stared at him. Balthezar then realized that he should probably stay perfectly quiet and still, and so he crouched down and resolved himself not to touch anything.

As the three of them settled into their stakeout, Caliban found himself distracted, slightly. One eye kept a close watch on the activity around them, but his other eye stayed glued to the coin purse in which he had stashed the orb for Cloudgazer. It made sense. He needed to make sure nobody stole it. That’s why he had taken it, so Cloudgazer wouldn’t be in danger. His mind roiled in that way as he kept watch, and no one, not even him, noticed that he kept a hand clapped firmly onto the little pouch.

\--

With considerably more stealth, not long after, Ms. Shortbread arrived. Knowing that her heavily armored companion would never manage to sneak through the city, the old woman had led Hotspur up to the rooftops, and soon, the two of them were looking down at the building where the Blade and Stars took up the entire first floor. Hotspur crouched down, trying to get a better look, but Ms. Shortbread didn’t need to. She had a perfect vantage point.

“See anyone yet?” asked Hotspur, “It seems dead in there. I didn’t think the bar would close so soon.”

“It doesn’t,” said Ms. Shortbread, her eyes not on the bar but on the streets around it, “Blade and Stars doesn’t close for three more hours, and that’s on a slow night. Something’s happened.”

“Think Balthezar and Caliban are in danger?”

“They said they were in hiding, didn’t they? Maybe they fled. We need to look for a trail. I might be able to follow them.”

“I’ll yell when I see one.”

At this point, Ms. Shortbread perked up, blinking her eyes. With her keen senses she had heard something and crouched down smoothly. Her movements were lithe and silken, and Hotspur was astonished. Wasn’t this woman supposed to be old? Even if she played up her age normally, surely, she couldn’t move like that.

“I heard something,” she said in a hushed whisper, “Clanging metal, in the alley on the other side.”

“Should we check it out?”

“Perhaps, but we must be…”

However, once again, she stopped, this time her eyes glancing about and finding a strange pair approaching the Blade and Stars from the front. She recognized one, a diminutive halfling, but not the other, bulkier figure.

“Company,” whispered the old woman, before she went absolutely flat on the roof and simply watched. Hotspur looked over at her and followed her lead, going flat and trying to make herself look small as possible.

\--

“Snout, do dragonborn lay eggs?”

“What?” Creon asked, although it wasn’t with much surprise. In the half hour the two had known one another, the wild conversation swings were already grating on Creon’s nerves. No matter how many questions he answered, it seemed like this Rosalind girl always had more.

“Do dragonborn lay eggs?” she repeated, hand on her chin, deep in thought, “I’ve hardly met dragonborn before. I knew a couple, but they tended to keep to themselves mostly. I was just wondering because this one time I actually encountered a clutch of dragon eggs, and they were big and jagged – almost like big warm rocks! I wondered if dragonborn eggs were the same way.”

“We don’t lay rocks, we lay eggs.”

“I know that!” she insisted happily, “But do they look like rocks?”

“No! They look like eggs!”

“I mean, eggs sometimes look like rocks. Ever seen turtle eggs? They’re like round little stones. Oh! And robin eggs are so pretty and blue you might not even realize they’re eggs at first. Unless you see ‘em in a nest of course.”

“This is stupid.”

“Well, what DO dragonborn eggs look like?”

Creon wanted to stay silent and just let the topic lie, but at this point he was annoyed, and wanted to put a definitive end to the conversation, and so he answered, “They’re about the size of your head, brown, white, or grey, with a rough texture, alright?”

“Sounds like a rock to me.”

“It’s not a…!” Creon began to cry out, but he stopped himself, breathing in and out to center himself, “Listen, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh!” Rosalind said, suddenly, “Is it embarrassing to talk about?”

“Yup! Very embarrassing. Big social faux pas. Best say we never spoke of this to anyone.”

At this, she nodded her head sagely and fell silent, thinking deeply. This gave Creon just enough peace and quiet to realize that they were getting close to the address Rosalind had spoken of. Creon held up a hand then, narrowing his eyes, before he moved to one side of the street and watched their target approach.

“Well that’s not right,” she whispered, looking at the building through his legs, “It shouldn’t be that dark.”

“They’re inside already,” said the dragonborn, “What do you got in that book of yours? Any more of that invisibility?”

“For the both of us if we want,” she said with a smile, “What do you got with those drums of yours?”

Creon furrowed his scaly brow and looked down at her with annoyance. “The drums are just in case. All I need is a sword. We ain’t rested, so I can’t get us out of there if things go wrong.”

“Got it,” she said, before she dug the hunk of gum arabic out of her pouch and plucked an eyelash from her eye with a flinch, “Ow. I’ve gotta get a wand or something. This is awful.”

“Keep it together. We’ll get you what you need afterwards.”

She nodded her head before she popped two bits of the gum into her mouth, chewed for a few moments, before she spat the hunks out and encased an eyelash into each little wad. With a quiet arcane word, she stuck one wad to her arm, where it clung fast, and one to the back of Creon’s leg. Soon, both of them faded away, falling invisible.

“Remember,” she whispered, “You stab someone or cast a spell that goes away. Don’t go wild too soon.”

“Got it. Let’s go.”

With that, the two of them began to walk, carefully, towards the bar. Creon turned the doorknob as quietly as he could and opened the door slowly, and soon, the two of them slipped inside.

\--

Ms. Shortbread smiled, and said, “Interesting.”

“Who are they?” asked Hotspur, “You know either of them?”

“The halfling, yes,” said Ms. Shortbread, “She’s the warlock Vanya’s been searching for. Seems someone else found her first.”

“And the dragonborn?”

“Not sure,” the old woman said, her smile curling up her face, “Isn’t it just a mystery?”

“Yeah, yeah, you get off on that mystery crap,” said Hotspur, “But they’re invisible and neither of us have a scrap of magic on us. What do we do?”

“I have a feeling there’s going to be fireworks soon,” she answered, “How about we wait until the excitement starts and then jump in.”

Hotspur couldn’t help but grin, displaying her full tusks, before she gripped the side of the rooftop, already anxious for the fight to begin.

\--

“Where is she?” whispered Balthezar, fidgeting, “She should have been here by now.”

“Maybe she’s in hiding, or she might have gone in when we weren’t looking,” said Tiresius.

“She wears heavy armor and wields an axe taller than most people, I doubt she could have slipped past us,” said Balthezar, before his horned brows knit together and he seemed worried anew, “Or maybe she got here a while ago, and she’s already inside. Do you think she might be in trouble?”

“Calm yourself, Cloudgazer,” said Tiresius with a low, gentle rumble, placing a hand on the younger dragonborn’s shoulder, “Don’t make too much noise now. They’ll hear us inside.”

“But what if…”

As he began to say that, the three of them suddenly heard the sound of creaking hinges around the corner. Someone had entered through the front door.

“That’s her!” Balthezar said, louder than he intended, before he placed his hand over his mouth.

“She must have gone inside. We need to hurry and catch her before she goes in too deep,” Tiresius said, standing up straight and hurrying through the alley.

“Tiresius, don’t get ahead of us!” said Balthezar, standing as well, before he called to Caliban, “Come along. I think it’s time.”

Expecting Caliban to simply follow behind him, Balthezar ran after Tiresius, flinching at every clank of his bulky armor. However, the lizardfolk was busy.

As the two dragonborn spoke, both of Caliban’s eyes were staring down at his hands, where the orb rested. His eyes were rarely both focused on the same object for this long. He was entranced by it all of a sudden. It was beautiful, in its own way. He nearly didn’t realize that Balthezar and Tiresius had disappeared around the corner until a slow, gentle voice in his head whispered to him.

_Follow them._

Immediately, he stood, and began to follow. With his strong legs, he could easily catch up to the dragonborns, but found the world around him somewhat duller than it had seemed before. However, he felt something warm deep within. It felt like a hearth fire, stronger than any magical effect he had felt before. It reminded him of the blessing of Deneir, which he had often felt while fighting alongside Balthezar, but it was different – warmer, stronger, more alluring. He wanted to tell his friend about the warmth, to share in it. That was what denmates did. They shared the fire.

_No,_ the voice said, gently, _this fire is yours alone._

All at once, the desire to share was quashed. Protectively, Caliban snuck the orb back into his coinpurse, and had to resist the urge to reach in again and touch it. Only when the voice admonished him did he focus on the task at hand. He had to help Cloudgazer and the strange gold dragonborn. By the time he, Balthezar, and Tiresius walked into the front door of the Blade and Stars, he forgot all about the orb, but a word burned in his mind – a word he didn’t understand but which he knew was the key to using this new fire within. A word he knew instinctively that he should say when it was time to fight.

Caliban heard faint laughter in his ear, but ignored it, as if it had simply been the wind.

\--

Invisible as they were, Creon and Rosalind moved quickly and confidently through the front room of the Blade and Stars. They sensed no hostile presence in the barroom and noted that the place had been absolutely turned over. Tables lay on their sides, chairs were smashed or flung across the room, and bottles of spirits lay in pieces on the floor, filling the room with the overwhelming stench of ale and drying liquor. Carefully, Creon stepped forward around anything that might make noise, and searched for a way upstairs. Someone had closed the shop, and therefore there must have been someone who was still here. Surely there was a clue.

His first clue came when he saw the corpses stacked up in one corner. Three more of those snake-creatures were laid out. They had been assaulted by magic, mostly, and the signs of radiant burns on all three made Creon think that Vanya had been here already. However, there was also a touch of mundane fire on their clothes, and two of them held signs of small, needle-like punctures on his neck. It took Creon a moment to realize they were bite marks of some kind of creature. Probably reptilian. Were the cultists turning against one another?

“Snout, watch out!” whispered Rosalind, and a moment later the dragonborn heard her soft bare feet against the floor of the bar. Creon himself crouched down low and pressed himself against the wall as he saw that the door opened, someone hot on their trail.

The first one through the door was, to Creon’s surprise, another dragonborn. His scales were green, and he was dressed in a set of blue robes with a chainmail shirt draped over it. In his hands was a long glaive which he obviously wielded with some skill, and around his neck was hung some sort of pendant, although Creon could not see what icon it was. The green dragonborn had small horns and a soft, nervous face, and the silver immediately noted the small spectacles upon his snout.

“It seems clear,” the green dragonborn said, and Creon was given his second surprise of the hour. The dragonborn’s accent was all wrong! He didn’t talk at all like a Thymari should. His accent seemed somewhere between elvish or human, the sort of accent a half-elf might develop if they commonly grew up between cultures. “Still, Caliban come in first, just in case.”

From there, Creon’s eyes widened as he saw the next visitor to the bar. The silver had seen lizardfolk before, most commonly as an adversary or as an uneasy third party. This lizard was, however, massive. He wasn’t any taller than his dragonborn companion, but he was certainly bulkier, and his long tail seemed to lash behind him as he looked around, his teeth bared and his eyes moving in two different directions as he did. Those teeth were thin and sharp, and Creon glanced over at the wounds he had seen on the corpses. Who were these people to return to the scene like this?

Then, the final member of this strange party entered, and Creon’s jaw hung slack and his eyes went wide. He saw the gold scales first, glinting in the lamplight outside. He saw the silhouette of the creature’s curved horns and saw the hanging whiskers. It was him.

The whole world seemed to freeze as he watched the gold dragonborn enter and look around, narrowing his eyes as he did. He stayed quiet as he trusted the sharper eyes of the green and the lizard, but he did cast a small cantrip, releasing three little balls of faerie light which circled around the creature, lighting up his features. Each curve and line of the gold’s face was just as it was described to Creon. He was older than the stories said, but he was clearly the same man. This was Tiresius Tyrantspawn.

“Where to?” asked Tiresius.

“She must be upstairs,” answered Balthezar.

Without even waiting, Caliban began to move towards the stairs on the far side of the room, followed by Tiresius, and then flanked by Balthezar, who continued to look around suspiciously. This was it. They were here to meet the people upstairs to finish whatever transaction they had come here for. However, Creon knew this was his moment. He knew Rosalind would follow his lead, and they had a perfect vantage point to ambush the group. Creon identified the green dragonborn as the largest threat – possibly not even a dragonborn, but clearly some sort of divine caster. The lizard would make trouble if Rosalind couldn’t hold him, but at the same time he was fairly certain she would have something for that. That left Tiresius himself. He wore no armor and held no weapon, but that just meant he was all the more dangerous for not needing such things.

“Wait,” said Balthezar, worried suddenly, “I feel odd about this. Something isn’t right.”

“Cloudgazer?” asked Caliban.

Now. Creon stood, still invisible, and knew if he didn’t attack now the element of surprise would be lost. He unsheathed his sword and flourished it, before he pointed a finger towards Balthezar and spoke a single musical word. Immediately, Balthezar began to feel a sudden heat, and looked around for the source. The heat grew, until his shoulders and chest were in pain, and he looked down to realize that the chain mail he wore was suddenly red hot. He screamed, feeling the agony of being cooked in his own armor all of a sudden, and his eyes went wide.

“Roz!” cried Creon as the invisibility around him faded, “If you got something, do it now!”

“Got it, Snout!” said a voice from behind the bar as Creon heard her throw out a magical incantation of her own, less musical but no less potent. When she became visible, he saw that she was holding her book open, as if drawing power out of it and focusing it through her hand. As Creon watched, the entire room seemed to light up with a sudden flame as sparks flew from her hands, lighting upon the ground and traveling until they completely encircled the lizardfolk and gold dragonborn, leaving Balthezar isolated against Creon. Both Caliban and Tiresius cried out as they, too, were bathed in the fire of Rosalind’s celestial patronage, but only Caliban felt the full brunt of the flames. Tiresius’ scales were well-used to fire from his heritage, but he still knew he couldn’t hold up to such an onslaught for long.

“What?” cried Balthezar, as his face turned first towards the roaring wall of fire, and then towards the silver dragonborn who had suddenly appeared out of the shadows. He opened his mouth to begin casting at once but found that he was flinching back against the heat of his own metal armor. When Creon rushed up to him, faster than he could even realize, and landed two slashes, one across his arm, and the other across his shoulder, he almost couldn’t breathe for the pain he felt, and when, finally, Creon landed a hard kick against his torso, he was knocked back into the wall of fire the other ambusher had created. Balthezar screamed as he was then completely immolated, closing his eyes.

“Cloudgazer!” screamed Caliban, but something strange occurred. He did not feel the rage within. He blinked his eyes and, although every instinct was telling him to rush through the fire and save Balthezar, he stood and did no such thing. Instead, he looked down at his pouch and heard a voice that was very much like his own tell him, _run upstairs. The orb must be protected._

The lizardfolk dove out of the fire then, scorching his scales with no apparent fear for his own safety. Tiresius, at this point watched the lizardfolk go and narrowed his eyes. That made no sense. Did Caliban just abandon Balthezar? With that thought in his head, Tiresius reached out with his own magic, crying out as he seemed to wrench the weave surrounding the wall of fire with his very hands and tore it apart. Immediately, the wall of flame died down, leaving a blackened circle around him, and leaving Balthezar whimpering, but still standing.

That was when Tiresius got a good look at their assailant. The silver dragonborn had such a look of rage upon his face. This was not a cultist, he knew. This was far, far more frightening than a cultist. It was his past, come to haunt him.

“Balthezar, we have to go.”

“C-Caliban, where’s…?”

Balthezar winced as he looked down and saw that the hot metal was still cooking him. A sudden rage then came over him as he cried out, “Enough!” with the voice granted to him by a god’s power and reached his arms out wide, digging deep into the reservoirs of his power. The word seemed to sooth Tiresius’ wounds, as well as his own, and what’s more, as soon as Balthezar healed his own body, he was able to manipulate the weave in such a way that the heat permeating his chainmail subsided. He was still injured, but ready to face this new challenge head-on.

“Cleric, huh,” said Creon, walking forward again, “Out of my way.”

As he spoke those words, there came a sudden, intense dread from within Balthezar’s mind, followed by a sharp pain in his head. He felt an urge to escape, to run away from this terrifying creature before him, but he shrugged off the feeling, leaving him still awake, but with a splitting headache.

“That’s bardic magic, Tiresius, keep your wits about you.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

“Take that culties!” cried Rosalind, smile on her face as she seemed to stand on one foot, opening her book to a different page this time, and attempting to form the fire she had just lost from her wall out into the form of a great ball of flame which flew right towards Tiresius and Balthezar. However, Tiresius was too fast for her, and with a wave of his arms, her spell fizzled, and she was left with nothing. “Oh! Damn!”

“You best not mess with me, girl,” demanded Tiresius, before he raised his arms above his head, “You dabble with divine magic. I am suffused in it.”

With that, all eyes beheld a horrifying sight. Tiresius, anger in his face, cried out suddenly as there came from his neck and shoulders a sudden, skin-crawling ripping noise. All of a sudden, from either side of his neck, two more gruesome draconic heads began to grow, and two more still from his shoulder blades, distending his own scaly skin out as they ripped their way free of their host. Finally, Tiresius’ own head, or at least a spectral replication of it, rose up, its face a cruel smile, and there stood a five headed dragon where Tiresius once stood, with one head of each chromatic color, with the red in the center.

All around the gold dragonborn, the heads began to breath a great radiant fire. Balthezar, confused and suddenly frightened by his friend’s transformation, held his arms in front of his face, but found that he was untouched by the flames. He blinked his eyes and realized what was going on. Those were Tiresius’ spirit guardians, much like the spectral librarians who came to his aid when called. However, when one called no god their own, that meant the only one they had to call on was themselves. Was that what Tiresius’ own astral form looked like?

Balthezar decided he didn’t want to know and knew also he had to take advantage of the zone of control the radiant fire would give him. This silver dragonborn seemed to need to get close to do real damage to them, and so Balthezar decided to keep his distance, instead rushing towards the staircase where Caliban had ran up and turning only long enough to wave his hands. All at once another spectral object appeared adjacent to Creon, and the silver dragonborn was taken off guard as a book suddenly came at his head. He felt the impact against the side of his snout, and he turned away from the blow, but still he stayed up.

“Tiresius!” cried Balthezar, “We have to go!”

“You’re not getting away from me!” screamed Creon, “Spawn of the Tyrant!”

Heedless of the wild, radiant fire spewing from all five of Tiresius’ heads, Creon made a move to step towards the dragonborn. However, before he could, he heard a sudden shattering of glass, and turned, raising his sword to meet this new challenge. He saw a green and silver blur roll across the floor where the window had just been blown open from the outside, and saw a black shadow follow after. He saw the half-orc and old human woman straighten up soon after, the half-orc on her knees and the human having landed gracefully on her feet.

“Hotspur!” cried Balthezar, and Creon knew at once these were no friends of hers.

“What on earth?” asked Ms. Shortbread, staring at the horrific beast which had blossomed from the seemingly normal body of a slightly doughy gold dragonborn.

“Is that…?” asked Hotspur.

“The silver dragonborn jumped us! Keep him busy. I need to find Caliban!” cried Balthezar, before he turned and ran. Creon made to follow, but Hotspur swung her axe, just narrowly missing and ripping a deep gash into the floor.

“Where are you going, shiny?”

However, before Hotspur could make another attack, she was suddenly struck by a bolt of radiant fire herself. She called out, turning to try to find the source of the flame, and saw Rosalind.

“I can keep ‘em busy, Snout!”

By this time, Tiresius had cut his losses and, with his five heads waving about, he ran after Balthezar. Creon ducked nimbly under another swipe of Hotspur’s axe as he, too followed along. Hotspur and Ms. Shortbread made to follow, but Rosalind stepped in the way, seeming nervous, but exhilarated.

“And what the hell are you supposed to be?” demanded Hotspur.

“A distraction!” she said with a wide smile, before she revealed that she was holding a bottle of strong spirits with a cloth wick inside. He smile took on a wild tinge as she lit the wick with a snap of her fingers and both Hotspur and Ms. Shorbread were forced to dive out of the way as the halfling smashed the bottle on the ground between them, spreading fire all over the floor.

\--

Caliban was confused. He had run. He had never run before, not like that. It made no sense, Cloudgazer was in trouble, he should have tried to push the dragonborn out of the fire, and yet here was, heading upstairs with the vague notion that something, or someone, he wanted to meet was up here. He didn’t understand what had happened, and he had tuned out the small voice in his head which told him to turn down a corridor with doors lining the halls, the inn rooms that travelers would rent for the night, and, without knowing quite why, he opened the first door on his left.

Finding nothing, Caliban continued to creep through the hall, opening one door after another. What was he searching for? And why was he searching alone? He usually left the investigation to other people. Puck usually knew what he was looking for when they needed to find something, Cloudgazer tended to have sharper eyes, and both the turtle and half-orc were more useful when it came to talking to strangers. He was out of his depth here. He hesitated before his claw met with another doorknob.

_Don’t you want to prove your worth?_ The voice said, just beyond his perception, _Go on. You don’t need them._

With that encouragement, Caliban gripped the doorknob of another room at the Inn and found that it was locked. He struggled with the doorknob, thinking perhaps he could simply pull the door down, but found that he didn’t have the force necessary to do it quickly.

He stepped back from the door, looking it up and down, before he crouched down, preparing to shoulder-check it down. He would get in there! He had to!

“Caliban!” cried Balthezar from behind the lizardfolk, “What are you doing?”

Caliban snapped out of it, as if he had awoken from a daze, and looked around. What was he doing? He realized he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember walking up the stairs, nor how he had come to be standing before this door. Still, he felt the urge to break it down, but the urge to connect with Cloudgazer was stronger. He turned towards the green dragonborn then.

The cleric’s robes were singed, and smoke rose off of his scaly skin. He was breathing hard, and Caliban knew what he had done was wrong. He left Cloudgazer behind, something he had vowed never to do. What had he been thinking? He rushed up, then, grabbing hold of the dragonborn and encircling him with his arms. He felt something deep within, a cold feeling, as if that fire he had felt since he had touched the orb had died down somewhat. He felt the urge to find a sunny corner, or to go to sleep with his body laid against another warm body, and he stuck his tongue out to lick some of Balthezar’s burns.

“Cloudgazer?” he asked, as if to ask what had happened.

“C-Caliban,” said Balthezar, confused by this sudden affection. He pulled himself away, understanding they were still in danger and placed his hands on either side of the lizardfolk’s face. Caliban realized that his friend was not afraid for himself. He was afraid for Caliban. He had sensed something, and with a face full of fear and concern for his friend, he asked, “Something is wrong. What is going on? Please, explain.”

Caliban opened his mouth wider and tried to organize his thoughts. He found, however, that his mind was even slower than usual. He couldn’t think. He was confused and had no idea what was going on. He struggled to find the words, and only managed to touch his friend in the places where the wounds were the worst, wounds that he had caused, somehow. Why couldn’t he remember?

_Delicious, isn’t he?_ The voice said, as Caliban’s eyes traveled up and down Balthezar’s form. Unconsciously, he began to drool, long, white foam beginning to form at the corner of his mouth and drip down in long strings which Balthezar stared at as they fell to the floor. _He is yours, and you are his. Why don’t you take a bite? He won’t mind._

“Calib…” began Balthezar, before he felt Caliban’s harsh, strong hands on his shoulder, wrenching him close. It felt almost intimate, like an embrace they would have shared in a private moment, but at the same time it was all wrong. Caliban’s eyes were wide, his mouth open, displaying his sharp teeth, and that constant waterfall of white foam drove a spike of fear through Balthezar’s heart. Before the dragonborn could cry out, the lizard suddenly drove his snout forward, hissing as he sank his teeth into Balthezar’s shoulder.

Red blood sprayed out of the dragonborn as he screamed in pain and fear, clutching onto Caliban out of confusion. This was his protector and lover, both, and he wanted comfort from him, but he was also in that moment his attacker. His vision grew blurry from tears and loss of blood as Caliban pushed hard on the dragonborn, sending him to the ground, before he climbed on top of the helpless cleric and took another bite, this time out of the green-scaled arm of his dragonborn friend. The taste of his meat gave the lizardfolk a thrill, all mixed up with hunger and what he always imagined love would feel like.

“S-stop!” cried Balthezar, eyes wide, terror in his face – real terror. It was a betrayal the like of which Balthezar had never experienced before. He was unable to think rationally, so focused was he on the blood and skin dripping from the jaws of this monster he cared for. “Caliban! Please! Stop!”

Caliban had drawn back his jaws and seemed ready to take another bite out of the dragonborn then, before he suddenly stopped. His face seemed to relax, his eyes focusing upon Balthezar’s tear-stained cheeks. He felt an urge to lick the tears from his friend’s cheeks, as he had done so many times before, but realized that he had the taste of blood in his mouth and saw at the same moment the bite marks upon the green scaled skin. What had he done?

Suddenly, there came a searing pain in Caliban’s back, and he screeched, arching backwards at the burning feeling. He stood, then, hunched over, teeth bared, and turned to see who had dared to interrupt his meal. He saw a skinny human with the whip standing there, red-blonde hair hanging limply over his eyes, which seemed to be alighted in rage. The broken second story window would have let Caliban see how the human had gotten here, had he not only had eyes for the meat in front of him.

Suddenly, the man with the whip struck out once again, and Caliban flinched back as another mark appeared, this time on his chest, and this time also, the very skin there seemed to immediately boil and burst from the inside, and soon a radiant energy exploded out from the lizardfolk’s skin. It would have been a massive, deadly wound on anyone else, and even for Caliban, he knew he could not take many more of those without falling.

_Run. You cannot face him. Not yet, my pet._

Caliban wanted to resist the voice. The voice made him hurt Cloudgazer. It was bad. It was meat. He wanted to tear out his own skull rather than listen to anything that voice told him but found that he could not. He rushed forward, body-checking the paladin as he did and knocking him off-balance. It gave him enough of an opening to leap through the window that the paladin had sailed in through a moment before. Heedless of the lizardfolk’s victim, Vanya turned back towards the window and cried out in rage, following after the creature.

Balthezar, his breathing ragged and his body in pain, raised a hand towards the window where he saw Caliban go. It had only been a few seconds of furious struggle, and yet here he was, bleeding out on the floor. He breathed in one last time, and struggled to climb to his feet, but found he could not. His eyes soon rolled into the back of his head, and he went limp, his vision going dark as his wounds overtook him.

\--

Almost as soon as that gold dragonborn had climbed the stairs, Creon had lost track of him. He was frustrated, growling as he marched up to find him. The halls of the second floor of the Blade and stars curved around in two directions, left or right, and as soon as Creon hit the top of the stairs, he was looking around for where to go to find his quarry. The bright light of the creature’s five heads should have given him away, but it’s possible he could have undone the spell. He looked around at all of the doors hanging open and gritted his teeth. The cultist scum could have been hiding in any one of them.

Suddenly, there was a scream coming from the left which caused Creon’s blood to run chill. It was full of pain, and he immediately turned to run towards it. Around the corner, he heard more noises of screeching and hissing, and as soon as he appeared, he saw something massive and green rush out a window in a blur, followed closely by another blur he recognized as Vanya.

“Hey! Vanya!” he cried out, but the paladin ignored him. Creon stepped forward to call out again, but his foot tapped against something else.

He looked down and his eyes went wide. The green dragonborn he had seen before was lying there, unconscious and bleeding out. He thought perhaps Vanya had dealt with him, but the wounds were all wrong. Other than the burns from Creon and Rosalind’s onslaughts down below, this dragonborn had been felled by the marks of teeth upon his shoulder and arm. Creon crouched down to investigate, and found the holy symbol hanging around his neck. It wasn’t Tiamat, or even any kind of draconic or Thymari god. It was unfamiliar to him, but seemed to be a candle, with an eye set into the holder. The cleric seemed to be breathing, raggedly, but he would not be so for long.

“Sssso. Vissitors, eh?” a sudden voice hissed.

Creon’s sword was immediately out of his sheath as he turned to regard the voice, stepping over the body protectively. His eyes went wide then, as he saw what was slithering through the open door.

The Yuan-ti was massive, with huge muscles under jeweled green scales, and a head like a cobra. Below, where a humanoid should have had legs, the creature instead had the long, slithering tail of a snake pushing him on, leaving a wobbling pattern in the dust of the floor. In one hand, it held a scimitar, and in the other, a metal buckler with that five-headed draconic ouroboros upon it.

“Come, feed our hunger,” the abomination said in hissing draconic, before it opened its jaws, and extended its long, retractable fangs, dripping with venom.

“Not likely,” muttered Creon back at him in his own language, before he raised his sword and, with a flourish, cast a spell of heat in order cause the sword in the creature’s hand to glow red hot. The Yuan-ti screeched in sudden pain as his hand smoked and sizzled, and he opened his hand to drop the sword to the floor. That was as much time as Creon needed in order to hoist the green dragonborn’s body up on his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and rush towards the same window that Vanya and that other creature had exited through.

“Come back here, meat!” the snake screeched, but Creon ignored him, knowing he couldn’t face it alone. He growled. Tiresius Tyrantspawn was back with his people, but this wasn’t the end. He would return and be able to put a stop to whatever was going on once and for all as soon as he got what he needed out of this skinny green cleric.

\--

Rosalind was dazed as she was held under Hotspur’s arm like a bundle of rice. It was annoying to deal with the tricky halfling but working together the half-orc and old human had managed it, taking her alive so they could ask her questions later. Finding Vanya, it turned out, was proving to be a more exciting endeavor than either of them had expected.

As they climbed the stairs, Hotspur said, “You’re always trouble, you know that, Ms. Shortbread?”

“I take pride in that, my dear,” she answered, with a saucy lilt to her voice. She then rushed ahead, throwing off all pretense of the hobbling, grandmotherly figure she pretended to be. Hotspur quashed the smile of respect she made unconsciously, before she tried her best to keep up.

They heard something as they came to the top of the stairs, laughter, and taunting, as if there was some sort of discussion in sibilant draconic. Hotspur immediately laid the halfling on the floor and took up her greataxe, not even waiting for an order from Ms. Shortbread before she rushed around the corner.

It took half a second to register what it was – a massive snake-man with a long tail, waving one smoking hand with black burns on it, staring down at a red-hot scimitar on the floor. Good. The half-orc needed some action. She focused herself and raised her axe with a smile, striking true as she had taught herself, uniting the power and rage of her orcish heritage with the centered, calm poise of her noble education. The axe struck true, the snake screaming out as a long gash opened up in its back, and Hotspur laughed as she pulled the axe back out, before swinging it again, this time the edge of the wicked black blade hitting bone with a satisfying crack.

“Better get in here before all the fun is over, Shortbread!”

The snake-man turned, then, and, seeing the half-orc, hissed out at her, intending to put her down with one bite of its long, horrendous jaws. However, when a crossbow bolt suddenly stuck itself into its chest, right over its heart, it screeched in pain, holding the wound with a hand as it began to gush black blood.

“That’s Ms. Shortbread!” cried the old woman with a twinkle in her eye, “Dearie.”

Hotspur had to laugh, but the laughter didn’t last long as Hotspur saw the creature’s eyes begin to swirl. Hotspur could not look away in time as the tell-tale signs of magic began to rise up off of the creature, and a sudden, sick dread came over the half-orc. She hatred herself for feeling that way, knowing in her mind it was the result of a spell, but still, she couldn’t help herself from feeling a deep seated fear for this creature in front of her, and she immediately dropped her weapon on the floor with a clang.

“Yessss, fear me, you fool. You shall be mere food for my companionsss and I.”

“Not likely,” said another voice, a smooth, gentle voice of an old man. Tiresius did not appear at first, and everyone looked around, confused, until from around the corner, a long draconic neck attached to a white-colored dragon head came slithering down across the ground. It lashed out at the abomination, biting down on its tail with shining jaws, and the Yuan-ti hissed in sudden pain and confusion. At this point, Tiresius came from around the corner, the source of the white dragon’s head coming from the side of his neck, where another neck seemed to grow gruesomely. He raised his hand and fired a bolt of fire out at the creature in front of him, and the creature drew back in pain. Hotspur realized in the next instant that the sudden fear was gone. Tiresius had interrupted the spell!

“You!” the abomination screeched, “Traitor!”

“Is that all you have to say after thirty years?” said Tiresius, gently, before he gave a curt nod to Hotspur.

Taking her cue, the half-orc scooped the axe back up off the ground and wasted no more time. She chopped out and chopped again, and with each blow the blood-soaked snake drew back further and hissed. Another crossbow bolt from Ms. Shortbread shot out and pierced the creature through the eye, but not deep enough to kill it instantly. Still, this gave the old woman an idea.

“Sir Dragonborn. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, “That can come later. For now, see that bolt in his eye? Aim there if you please.”

The dragonborn blinked at the old woman’s brazen attitude in giving a stranger orders in the middle of battle, but he looked up then and saw that she was absolutely correct. She had created a weakspot for him.

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he answered, before he raised a hand and gathered the radiant energy of his very soul into his palm before, in the next moment, firing it out towards the snake’s face. With Ms. Shortbread’s concise direction, it seemed trivial to aim for the spot and strike true, and the energy smashed into the snake’s face, driving the crossbow bolt even deeper. For that matter, his face began to light up with a strange divine energy, and Tiresius took advantage of his own guidance for his second strike.

“May you find peace in death old friend,” said Tiresius as he moved a finger, and the white dragon head turned to regard its master with a wild look in its eye, before it lifted up and opened its jaws wide. It went for the Yuan-ti’s face, where the very tip of that crossbow bolt had not yet entered, and it drove itself forward, clamping down with a flash of energy.

With one last screech, the Yuan-ti found its mind suddenly blank. The bolt had been driven deep into its skull and had scrambled the delicate matter inside of its head. In the next moment, it went limp, falling to the floor, dead. There was silence for a moment, broken only by Tiresius.

“Come back, now. No need to go wild anymore,” he said, gently, laying a hand on the long neck of the white dragon growing from his shoulder. He smiled up at it, and it began to shrink back down, reluctantly, before it closed its eyes, as if falling asleep, and disappeared into the gold scales of the dragonborn. Tiresius stretched his neck then and breathed deep. The dragon heads seemed as if they had never been there at all.

“Tiresius!” cried Hotspur, gesturing towards the Yuan-ti, “What the hell is going on here?”

“Not here,” said Tiresius, “Search him. If you find an orb on him, take it.”

“Alright,” said Ms. Shortbread, before she quickly began to search the corpse of the great snake for any pockets or pouches. When she found none, she rushed quickly and quietly into the room where it had come from.

“Where’s Balthezar and Caliban?” demanded Hotspur, frowning deeply. She whipped the helmet from her head and pierced Tiresius with a gaze of anger.

“I don’t know. I hid from the bounty hunter after losing track of them. I didn’t see where they went.”

“Then we had better find them quick if you value your heads.”

Tiresius wasn’t phased by the threat, but he did tilt his head, “I’ve hardly any magic left. I’ve used most of it up. I need a rest, and my magic is more useful on the battle side of things.”

“There’s nothing here,” said Ms. Shortbread, surreptitiously emptying a coinpurse into her own pouch, “At least nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Then Caliban must still have it,” said Tiresius, relief in his voice, “There’s still hope.”

“Hope? For what?”

“Maybe I can answer that,” a fourth voice said, very small and weak, but still with an edge of gaiety in it. All eyes turned, and saw nothing, and then looked down and saw Rosalind limping up.

“You again,” Hotspur snarled, taking a battle stance.

“Yes, me. No more fighting, please. I’d like to go somewhere to rest too,” she said, “But the cult was doing something bad here. There was supposed to be a delivery.”

“Delivery?” asked Ms. Shortbread.

“Uh huh. We thought it was this guy,” she said, pointing towards Tiresius, “But he helped you out and killed the snake guy, so I don’t know what’s up anymore. Can we maybe find some place to take a nice sit?”

Hotspur almost demanded more answers right there and right now, but she had the good sense to glance over at Ms. Shortbread. The old woman was gazing intently into the faces of the dragonborn and halfling, and she then turned to Hotspur and nodded. If Ms. Shortbread trusted them, then Hotspur supposed she should too, at least for now.

“Stay sharp, and stay out of my way,” said Hotspur, pushing past the halfling, who soon followed the half-orc closely, “Ms. Shortbread, you got a safehouse somewhere we could lay low?”

“I can come up with something, Hotspur,” she said, before she twined her arm around Tiresius’ as if they were at a dinner party, leading him down the stairs as he stared at her arm, confused, “In the meanwhile, Mr… Tiresius was it? I am very interested in finding out more about you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balthezar and Creon meet properly and spend the evening hiding away together in a basement in Baldur's Gate.

A dull ache in Balthezar’s bones greeted him as he stirred. A few moments of painful oblivion were all as the green dragonborn began to be aware of his surroundings. He was lying on something hard, possibly stone, but he was too warm, and felt cheap material like wool covering him. He breathed in, and he could taste medicine on his tongue, as if he had just swallowed something bitter and healthy. That explained the dulling pain in his body. After the wounds he had sustained, he should have been dead.

He forced his eyes open as he remembered the events of the past day, gasping, as he struggled to right himself. He realized all of a sudden that his hands were bound, and though he blinked the sleep from his eyes, he could see nothing. He was blindfolded, and he felt a knotted piece of cloth in his mouth, gagging him. He struggled against his bonds – simple ropes, but he knew they would be too strong for him to pull his way out of. He tried to call out, but his voice was muffled by the gag.

“Awake, huh?” a voice said, gently, and Balthezar could feel the presence next to him. He felt a cold hand lay on his forehead, feeling his temperature, and the deep voice rumbled with thought. “Seems like the potion took. You’ll be fine.”

Balthezar tried to answer but could not. Fear was bubbling up in his stomach. He wanted to know where Caliban was.

“Calm down, I won’t hurt you. Just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t try hurtin’ me in case you were still brainwashed.”

Brainwashed? At that moment, Balthezar seemed to settle at least enough that the owner of the voice stood and walked around him. He felt fingers on his face, and soon the blindfold was pulled from his eyes.

There was a painful glare of light as his eyes were forced to adjust in a moment to the bright firelight to his left. No wonder he was so warm. He then looked up and saw the face of his captor, and the sight of it caused Balthezar to freeze in place.

With scars on his snout and across his eye, and the serious look upon his face, the dragonborn scowled down. There was a longsword in his left hand and the blindfold in his right, and both arms were thick, barely held by the rolled-up sleeves of what appeared to be a ratty military uniform. The dragonborn had swept-back, straight horns, and a large, rounded snout, as well as a thick neck and shoulders, and Balthezar could see the peek of his barrel chest through the undone buttons of his coat. He dropped the blindfold then and, holding the sword to Balthezar’s neck as a silent warning, he pulled the gag from his mouth.

“Quick now,” he said in draconic, eyes widening, “What God do you serve?”

Balthezar hesitated for a moment at the strange question, but he figured there must have been a reason. He furrowed his own horned brow and answered, as defiantly as he could while scared out of his wits. He answered in common, unable to think of the words in the language of dragons, “Deneir, god of knowledge, Scribe of Oghma.”

The other dragonborn leaned back then, taking the sword away from Balthezar’s neck. As he did, he came into the light, and his scales seemed to shine silver in the firelight, although the dirt upon them sullied their shine a bit.

“You know to answer truthfully, at least,” said the silver in common, crouching down lower, “You look like a cleric, sure. Is Deneir usually one to hang about with Tiamat cultists?”

“T-tiamat…? No! Of course not,” said Balthezar, “Who are you? Where have you taken me?”

“I’m askin’ the questions here, holy man,” was the answer, “You ain’t cast anything yet. That’s good.”

“You would stab me if I did.”

“Self-preservation. Means you’ve got your own mind about you,” he said with a sneer, “Which means you were in there of your own volition. You were either tricked, or you work for the cult.”

“I don’t work for the cult!” he said, before he turned his face to look around. They appeared to be inside some kind of dark basement, and in the fire light he could only make out faint details in the shadows. He saw crates and furniture covered with sheets, but no stairs or doors he could escape to.

“Okay. Then what’s your name?”

“I… I asked you first.”

“And I ain’t got a lot of patience, friend,” snapped the silver dragonborn, eyes widening as the sword found its way to Balthezar’s throat again, “I got a mighty grudge against Thymari who betray their country by aiding and abetting Tiamat’s escape.”

“I told you I’m not…”

“Then why were you traveling with this man?” demanded the dragonborn, loudly, thrusting his empty right hand into Balthezar’s face. After a moment, a flicker of magic sparked from the palm, a small illusion spell, and he displayed a miniature likeness of a gold dragonborn with curved horns and whiskers. It was clearly a rendition of Tiresius, although as a much younger man. Balthezar blinked his eyes and looked past the illusion at his captor.

“I can travel with who I like,” said Balthezar, “What is he to you?”

“Do you know who he is, then?” said the stranger, low and menacingly, “And still traveled with him?”

“I know he is a very nice old man who means no one any harm,” answered the green dragonborn quickly, “And he saved me from the likes of you.”

Waving his hand, the dragonborn dispelled the illusion and grabbed hold of Balthezar by the collar of his tunic. A moment later the tips of their snouts met, and Balthezar could feel a sudden rush of cold air slip past his captor’s lips. Dread filled up his stomach.

“That man is a traitor,” said the silver in draconic, the freezing air causing fog to flow from his nostrils, “A traitor to Tymanther. I don’t know who you are, but if you’re protecting him, you’re responsible for him as far as I’m concerned. You want to go down for his crimes?”

Balthezar blinked his eyes and had to think for a moment. Despite being dragonborn, Draconic was not his first language, and he was unused to speaking it. Eventually, he answered, formulated in stilted, textbook draconic, “I am not Thymari.”

“Then who are you?”

“My name is Balthezar, sometimes called Cloudgazer,” he answered, quickly and defiantly, “Chosen of Deneir, acolyte of Candlekeep.”

“Balthezar?” he repeated, scoffing, “That’s not a Draconic name.”

“I was raised by the scribes of Candlekeep to tend to the books,” explained Balthezar, “I was an orphan. Thymari politics don’t matter to me.”

“You’re still one of us. No matter how far you go.”

“Jolly good,” Balthezar said, letting nervous sarcasm sneak into his words, “Why did you attack us? Did you think we were cultists?”

“Tiresius Tyrantborn is.”

“Tyrant… born?” the green dragonborn muttered, his eyes widening, thinking on what Tiresius had told him.

With a scoff, the silver dragonborn gave a slight curl of his lip, showing his teeth. The breath on Balthezar’s face seemed to get warmer, before he pulled away and, with a deft slice, Balthezar found his hands freed. A moment later, the dragonborn cut the bindings on his feet as well, and then sat back, watching the green dragonborn.

The silver said, calmly and in common, “Sit up. Let’s talk.”

“You’re freeing me?”

“If you want to go, go,” he answered, “But if you want to know more, maybe we can talk about it. He tricked you, obviously, him and that lizard.”

“Lizard… Caliban?” asked Balthezar, sitting up at once with wide eyes, “You saw Caliban? Where did he go?”

“After mauling you? He ran out the window. My… associate is chasing after him. No idea where he ended up.”

Balthezar reached up to massage the place where Caliban’s teeth had sunk into his shoulder. He felt welts there. Magical healing had been applied soon enough that it was unlikely to scar, but he still felt a chill there as he remembered the pain in both his body and his heart. He balled his hands into fists, then, staring down at the floor, and he could suddenly feel tears forming at the edges of his vision.

However, the silver dragonborn’s scaly hand entered his vision suddenly, and he looked up.

“Creon,” he said, offering a handshake, “Creon Nastiar. Nice to meet you, Balthezar. Wish we could have met differently.”

“Er…” stammered Balthezar, before he wiped his eyes and took the silver paw in his own. The silver scales were cool to the touch as he realized the other dragonborn’s body temperature was slightly colder than his own, “I won’t say it’s a pleasure.”

“That’s fair,” Creon said, not smiling, but clearly with a gentle humor to his voice as he nodded. He pulled his hand away and rested his elbows on his knees as he sat on the floor around the fire. “So, let’s start over. Compare notes. What do you know about Tiresius Tyrantborn?”

“I… I know a bit. He was very forthright about his intentions with the cult.”

“How so?”

“He…” began Balthezar, before he paused. He wondered how much would be appropriate to say. Tiresius had told him about his past in confidence. “Mr. Tiresius was with the cult once, he told us that much. He was… high ranking, but he got out.”

“They say he’s the grandson of Tiamat herself, or at least he claims to be.”

“He… he said as much. He hired my group to escort him to Baldur’s Gate, and he told us he was in town to disrupt some sort of transaction.”

“Transaction… I’ve heard about it.”

“But he was… very abrupt in his manner when it came to the cult. He cast first and asked questions later, so to speak. Caliban and I were dragged along when he attacked some cultists in the Blade and Stars, and we had to flee.”

“The lizardfolk is with you?”

“Yes! He and I are partners,” said Balthezar, a sudden sorrow coming over his face, “I… I’ve never seen him like that, however. Something was wrong. Something happened…”

Just like that, Balthezar’s eyes widened. He blinked his eyes, and a sudden guilt overtook him. Of course. It was so simple.

“The orb!”

“Orb?” asked Creon, “Is that what they were bringing into town?”

“It must have been,” answered Balthezar, puzzling through the events of the past day, “A small orb, intensely magical. Caliban volunteered to hold it for us.”

“Why did you bring it there?”

“Because we were searching for another companion of ours and the last place she would know to find us was there. I never expected… Caliban to turn on me like that. The orb must have charmed him somehow. Yes! That must be it!” At that, Balthezar hobbled weakly to his feet, looking around, and he demanded, “Where are my things? I must find Caliban.”

“Woah there, hold on. You’re still on death’s door. You need to rest,” said Creon, standing up as well and grabbing hold of Balthezar’s arm, “You need sleep. Proper sleep. You can’t fight like that.”

“You said your associate was hunting Caliban! He’s in danger!”

“He’s also being mind controlled by some kind of draconic artifact.”

“He’s my responsibility, Mr. Creon!” cried Balthezar, trying to pull his arm away. However, he was surprised at the iron-hard grip of the larger dragonborn. “Let me go.”

“Not until you see sense. You. Will. Die if you go out there like you are.”

“And Caliban will die if I don’t!” screamed the dragonborn, before he closed his eyes and raised his free hand to his chest. He began to mutter and hum, his voice resonating with the song at the center of all things, and the palm of his hand began to glow. Creon tensed up.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Healing myself,” said Balthezar, before he cast the spell once again. He could feel his magical reserves running dry, but he was hurt enough that he needed it. “If I’m to chase after him…”

“Don’t be an idiot! You ain’t going anywhere.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Creon Nastiar!” cried Balthezar, suddenly, his eyes going as hard as they could as he turned to stare him down, leaning in to put his snout inches from the silver’s, “I am a chosen warrior of Deneir, and a student of magic.”

“And you’re gonna be fighting a feral swamp beast, and a paladin with a whip who doesn’t care a lick about anything but getting his vengeance rocks off,” Creon snapped, “You trust this Caliban person?”

“With my life!”

“Then trust him not to get killed. The best thing you can do for him is stay alive and stay hidden until the morning. We can search for him tomorrow.”

“We…?”

Creon paused, before he nodded, “He has that orb the Tyrantborn was looking for. I have a feeling I know where that orb goes, and if it gets there we’re in trouble. Does Caliban know anything about the cult?”

“Not really, no.”

“Good. Whatever’s controlling him won’t be able to use his knowledge to hook up with the remnants of the cult,” said Creon before he let go of Balthezar and walked back to the fire, where Balthezar noticed a smoking cooking pot suspended over it, “Come on. I got stew. You need to eat. The potion is probably starving you.”

“I-I…” Balthezar tried to find something to say to argue with the other dragonborn’s logic but found he could not. He felt the exhaustion deep within. The spells he could weave were not going to outpace the wounds he had sustained, and he couldn’t fight either Caliban or this man he had seen with the whip without any spells. Slowly, he walked back towards the fire, and sat, and soon a bowl of meat stew was laid in his lap. Creon did not smile, but the soft tilt of his brow let him know that this was coming from a place of true concern.

“If you catch Mr. Tiresius,” said Balthezar, picking up the bowl and the spoon he had been given, “What will you do with him?”

“When I catch him, I kill him,” said Creon.

There was a pregnant pause, then, as a spoonful of stew was suspended halfway between the bowl and Balthezar’s mouth. He clenched his jaw, looking away from Creon, and let the spoon dip back down into the bowl. He thought for a moment before speaking again.

“So Tymanther wants him dead?” asked Balthezar, “For crimes he has long since renounced? For crimes he’s trying to atone for?”

“I ain’t working for Tymanther.”

“Aren’t you an agent of theirs? Isn’t that their uniform?”

“It is, but I’m not with the Lance Defenders anymore. Retired early.”

“Lucky you.”

Creon hit Balthezar then with a sharp look, which caused the green dragonborn to look away bashfully. He finally began to eat. The stew was plain, but nourishing.

“I was forced to retire. Injury,” said Creon, holding up his right arm and clenching his fist as he did, “I wasn’t ready. I want them to take me back. That’s why I want Tiresius’ head.”

“He really has nothing to do with you, then? Just an instrument of your own redemption?” asked Balthezar.

“Say what you like,” muttered Creon, “My clan admires strength. I need this. You wouldn’t understand. You said it yourself. You ain’t Thymari.”

“I’ve met enough of them to know I’m not particularly a fan,” said Balthezar, sitting up straight, “The glances askance at Caliban and I when we’re out and about in the dragonborn neighborhoods tell me all I need to know.”

“Staring… at you two?” Creon said, furrowing his brow and looking up at Balthezar with puzzlement.

Balthezar began to blush, but tried not to show it on his face, eating his stew with dignity. “‘Hatchling stuff’ is what I imagine you are thinking. Well, I haven’t a clan I need to prove anything to.”

Creon, for the first time Balthezar could remember, cracked a small smile as he heard the phrase. He laughed a little, and the sound caused Balthezar’s cheeks to blush an even darker green.

“What?”

“I heard that too many times to fault someone else for it,” said Creon, digging into his stew.

Balthezar merely stared for a moment, finding only a single, astonished word, “Y-you?”

“I was on thin ice well before I lost the use of my arm,” said Creon, “The mating contract was tilting in her family’s favor more and more as I… experimented. After the injury, that was that. My father was furious.”

“You’re betrothed?”

“I was,” he said, “Not anymore. Good riddance. I never even met her. My clan signed the contract before I was even hatched. I messed it up, though. ‘Hatchling stuff.’ Don’t worry about me. The Lizard thing is weirder to me than the gay thing, but I know how things work in big cities like Waterdeep.”

Balthezar blinked his eyes, and chanced a small laugh of his own, before he looked away and down into his stew. At least he and Creon had that much in common. His smile slowly faded, then, as he remembered that he was sitting there while Caliban was out there on the street.

“You’re thinking about him, ain’t you?” asked Creon.

“What?” Balthezar muttered, before he breathed in and looked up, answering, “Oh. I suppose so.”

“How’d you two meet?”

“Er… I helped him out of a spot of trouble. Paid for some apples he stole. He started following me and… well, there was a mutual attraction. We’ve grown close since then.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Well, not as such,” Balthezar explained, “Lizardfolk don’t mate for life. It’s a temporary arrangement. When it comes time, we shall continue to be the best of friends, but love isn’t necessarily required. We are… bonded. Devoted to one another. That transcends simple physical intimacy.”

“A two-man clan,” muttered Creon past a wistful little smile, “The first and last of the Cloudgazers.”

At the sound of Creon saying his childhood name, Balthezar frowned slightly, tilting his head. “That isn’t really a clan name, you know. Not even a family name really. It’s just something people called me when I was a child, and it stuck. I took it as a sort of family name after coming to Waterdeep.”

“That’s all it really takes for a clan to start,” said Creon, “Splinter families going off and starting their own clans, making their deeds known. They either establish themselves or are absorbed into another clan as a vassal house.”

“I’m just one man making his way through the world,” said Balthezar, “There’s no need to say much more than that.”

“I envy you that.”

The green dragonborn blinked, looking up into Creon’s face. He saw the silver was staring into the fire, face blank, and eyes narrowed.

“Me? Envy me?” asked Balthezar, tilting his head, “I’m a skinny librarian at heart, honestly. You seem to at least have a purpose in life…”

“For someone else,” muttered Creon, “I envy you getting to live for yourself.”

“I don’t live for myself, though. I live for my friends. I live for my team,” said Balthezar, gently, “Occasionally I live for a good book, but that’s in rare moments when I can indulge myself.”

“I barely have that,” said Creon, holding up his arm, “I had a purpose once. Military life. I was gonna be a general. Maybe even rise up to be the next Vanquisher. Then… A training lance through the arm ended all that.”

“Haven’t you… tried seeking magical healing?”

Creon shook his head, “Tymanther prides itself on healing the body without magic. Surgery saved my arm, but it couldn’t save the nerves. Here.”

With that, Creon offered his right hand towards Balthezar. The green dragonborn hesitated, before he took the hand, feeling the cool scales against his own. The hand did not react to his touch, not even a little bit. He saw, then, the long scar leading from the base of his elbow all the way up his forearm and ending at his wrist. It was ugly, but technically well done. Balthezar stared at it with pity.

“Couldn’t you get the nerves regrown?” asked Balthezar, “Regenerative magic is powerful, and it would take a far more powerful cleric than I, but…”

“It’s too late,” said Creon, pulling his hand away and clenching the fingers, “Even if I got it fixed, I’ve been out of practice with my right too long. I’ve had to learn a whole different fighting style from scratch. Going back now would ruin all of that training.”

“You aren’t left-handed?” asked Balthezar, impressed suddenly as he stared at the longsword, set on the dragonborn’s right hip where he could draw it with his left.

“Nope,” said Creon, scowling, “Took years. Humiliating years.”

“But you have magic… bardic magic, isn’t it?”

“I ain’t a bard.”

“But I heard you singing slightly when you cast your spells,” Balthezar noted, smiling, “It’s very impressive. You’ve developed a style where you need no arcane focus or instrument.”

“I. Ain’t. A. Bard,” Creon repeated, harshly, hitting Balthezar with a look of annoyance, “Bards are ridiculous little people who joke around and screw anything that moves.”

“I… apologize, then,” Balthezar said, quickly, “I have a bard in my party back home. He’s fond of gallows humor but he’s quite averse to romance. Perhaps you might like him.”

“Doubt it,” said Creon. He turned his eyes back towards his stew and said nothing else.

Balthezar cleared his throat then, pointedly looking back at the fire and away from Creon. He considered silently finishing his stew then and going to sleep, but his old curiosity about magic was flaring up again. Creon was not the type to learn spells, or if he did he was the type to learn through separate avenues – a few spells here and there for a swordfighter, or as part of a paladin oath. Yet, here he was, quite talented already. He seemed to be a natural at bardic magic, and from what Balthezar knew about the arcane, it took a great deal of dedication and a certain kind of talent to make that happen. He turned back to Creon, his nervous face splitting into a small smile, surrendering to the urge to gab about his favorite subject.

“Were you artistic before you began learning?” asked Balthezar, his smile growing, “That’s one thing that seems to be common among bards… I mean, er, practitioners of… your style of magic. A certain artistic spirit attunes itself to the wilder and more chaotic energies of the weave.”

Creon glanced over at Balthezar, and then looked back down at his stew, “I wouldn’t call it artistic. I was the military musician for my squad.”

“Well! That certainly counts!”

“I played the bugle to get the squad up in the morning, and the drums to accompany our marches,” he said, “I learned to play the Lute in the circus.”

“Circus!” Balthezar exclaimed, his smile widening.

It was now Creon’s turn to blush, although it was harder to see under his metallic scales. His usual neutral scowl darkened to a frown to cover it up as he looked away from the green dragonborn.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“I’m only asking from a purely academical standpoint. I have always been interested in how people acquire magical power. There’s a certain bias towards Wizards and Clerics when one reads about it, just because we tend to study and write about what we know best, but other magical techniques are just as valid. I would love to know more about the Bardic method.”

Creon paused, before his eyes turned to glare at Balthezar. Even so, he answered, “There was a lot of juggling involved.”

“Juggling?”

Creon placed his stew on the floor, and, in one smooth movement, drew his longsword in his left hand. Without any exertion or joy upon his face, he tossed the sword up into the air, causing Balthezar to gasp lightly, the edge of that deadly weapon spinning end-over-end through the air. It seemed to be coming down blade first, but Creon was perfectly in control, reaching up to snatch the sword out of the air by the blade with two fingers and tossing it up once again. He proceeded to juggle the blade up and down in one hand, and eventually Balthezar began to smile, with wide eyes. Finally, Creon snatched the blade out of the air one last time, flourished it a few times and sank it back into its sheath. Balthezar began to clap immediately.

“Splendid!” said Balthezar, “Of course! You’ve incorporated your weapon into your artistic manipulations of the weave! That’s why you don’t require a musical instrument.”

“I guess. The ringmaster didn’t know enough to put it that way,” said Creon, “I saw them doing tricks in the street, recognized magic when I saw it, asked them to teach me, and, well, I spent a couple years working for them. Learned to do anything they could do with one hand tied behind my back. Juggling, spent some time as a strong-man, sword-swallowing…”

“Sword-swallowing?”

Creon scowled, “I ain’t giving a demonstration here.”

“O-oh! Er… certainly not.”

Creon’s face softened as he saw Balthezar’s innocent curiosity, despite the silver dragonborn’s brusque manner. He had to admit, seeing someone so focused on him felt good. As much as he quashed the impulse, performing for people had been a rush, even if it wasn’t truly his calling. It was just the other people at the circus he couldn’t stand. Feeling a sudden impulse to show off but certainly not wanting to swallow a sword which had been used to cut up a Yuan-ti only an hour and a half before, he instead pulled the sword out and dipped the tip into the fire.

“What are you doing?”

“A trick. Let’s see if I can still do it.”

With that, Creon reached into the pack at his side and withdrew a half-finished bottle of Thymari firewhiskey. He regarded the bottle for a moment, before he poured a shot down his own throat, hissing at the sting. Then, he pulled the longsword’s tip from the fire, admiring the air as it warped from the heat coming off of the red-hot steel, and he jerked his head to one side.

“Might want to stand back.”

Immediately, Balthezar scooted backwards, but he kept his eyes always on Creon and that red-hot sword. He stared as Creon took another swig of the firewhiskey, filling his mouth, but not swallowing, and held the red-hot sword up to his mouth with the burning blade sideways so the whiskey could flow past it. He then stood and, theatrically, he drew back in a performative mockery of a dragon’s breath, and soon, he spat a stream of liquid which ignited on the sword and lit up the dark basement. Balthezar clapped once again as Creon spat two streams of hot fire, and then one, long sustained flame, and then, finally, he seemed to open up his mouth wider and moved the blade so that his snout was flush with the base of his sword. Freezing cold air began to flow from his gullet, his own natural dragonbreath flowing out and coating the blade up to the still red-hot tip, until he closed his mouth slightly one last time and, with a small amount he had kept under his tongue safe from his own breath weapon, spat the last of the firewhiskey on the still red-hot tip. For an instant, the blade flared up at the tip, burning with clear, blue flame as the rest of the blade stayed frosted over. It looked as if he had transmuted the flame itself into something cold, and when he shook the blade, the fire went out. He flourished it once again, tossing it up and catching it by the pommel, before he gave a curt nod of his head, his version of a grand bow. Balthezar was immediately applauding happily, grandly impressed.

“Bravo!” said the green dragonborn, “Well done!”

“It’s just a trick,” said Creon, shrugging his shoulders as he sat down, placing his firewhiskey bottle on the floor and pulling out his waterskin. He poured it over the whole of the blade, and with a gout of steam, the tip began to cool off and he washed the frost off the rest of it. “Can’t do it too often. It’s hell on whatever sword you use it on.”

“I can help,” said Balthezar, holding up his hands, eager to share his own talents, “I can undo some of the damage if there’s any. Deneir blessed me with the miracle of mending.”

Creon looked up at Balthezar, and the sight of the dragonborn’s enthusiastic smile caused him to smile a little as well. However, he remembered himself a moment later, forcing himself to frown. Once the sword was a reasonable temperature, he flicked the water off and laid it down to dry by the fire so it wouldn’t rust. He put away his waterskin then and took another swig of his whiskey, before passing it over to Balthezar.

“Here.”

“Huh?”

“I’m two up on you already. You need to catch up,” said Creon, without any apparent humor, “Plus whatever I swallowed during the trick.”

“O-oh! Er… thank you,” said Balthezar, taking the bottle. He wondered if he had something to pour it into but decided that since Creon had simply drunk from the bottle, that must have been the polite way to do it. He held it up to his snout. It smelled very strong, and somewhat peppery, and he was nervous as he tipped the bottle into his mouth and took a measured gulp.

His mouth was suddenly on fire and his eyes went wide. He choked slightly, before he put the bottle down and began shaking his hands. He swallowed as quickly as he could, letting the burning liquid pass his tongue by. It was similar to some things he had drunk, especially on nights when Hotspur was feeling adventurous and wanted everyone to keep pace with her. Dwarven liquors had been as powerful as this but had not been nearly so spicy. As the aftertaste resolved itself, Balthezar found that his mouth continued to be on fire, as if he had eaten a hot pepper raw. He blinked, his eyes tearing up, but he realized that under the pain there was something there – a peppery, smoky taste that settled on his palate. The heat faded eventually, but the taste remained, and he found himself calming down and enjoying it. He wasn’t usually one to drink for the taste of it, but he had to admit he enjoyed that once he had gotten past the initial shock.

“Th-that’s…” began Balthezar, and he found his voice was smaller than he intended. He cleared his throat, and began again, “That’s very good.”

“Take another if you want,” said Creon, who had been staring at the other dragonborn intently, “You really ain’t from Tymanther. You took that like a teenager.”

“I… Like I said, I’m a librarian at heart,” said Balthezar, picking the bottle back up just to spite him, “Elven wine and spirits were what I knew in Candlekeep. I hadn’t even had a proper ale until I got to Waterdeep.”

“Well, then. This is Thymari liquor. This is your people’s drink of choice, Cloudgazer.”

Balthezar stared down at the bottle, before he got brave and took a second swig. He did not choke that time, but he did squint his eyes against the heat of the spice, and then relaxed at the pleasant after-taste. He smiled as the warm feelings washed down his gullet and settled in his stomach. He then passed the bottle back to Creon.

“It’s nice,” he said, “Perhaps I should visit, someday.”

“Maybe. Your accent’ll get you some funny looks.”

“It already does, Creon,” Balthezar said, with a little wan smile and a shrug of his shoulder, “I’ve accepted that I don’t fit in most places.”

Creon suddenly furrowed his brows and looked away from Balthezar’s face. He hadn’t expected such an innocent phrase to hit him so hard. He glanced towards the bottle in his hand, before he took another swig, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and thinking deeply. Did Balthezar truly know what it was like to be an outcast? Could he truly just accept it if he did? Creon shook his head before he corked the bottle and stashed it away. There was enough left over for at least another evening’s round of drinks, but he knew too much wouldn’t be good for Balthezar’s wounds.

“It’s late,” said Creon, “You need rest.”

“Y-yes. I suppose,” said Balthezar, slightly disappointed as he saw the firewhiskey go back into Creon’s pack, “Is there a bedroll I can use, or…?”

“You can use mine,” said Creon, hooking a thumb to point towards his own pack, “I’m used to worse sleep than this.”

“O-oh, well… I…”

“Don’t say no,” Creon insisted, “You’re a librarian at heart, right? I’m a soldier.”

Balthezar looked at the silver dragonborn as he said this, before he finally smiled and nodded his head, “Alright, fine.”

“Goodnight, Cloudgazer.”

Balthezar stood, then, and walked unsteadily to Creon’s bedroll, unfurling it and getting himself ready for proper sleep. Creon, at this point, sat back and watched the fire, thinking hard about his conversation with the other dragonborn. His thoughts drifted, soon after, to Tiresius, and his self-imposed grudge against him. All he had to do was bring back the Tyrantborn’s head, and he would be hailed a hero in Djerad Thymar. His rank would be reinstated. He would likely be promoted. His clan would take him back. His life would be back on track, and all it would take is the death of one dragon cultist.

He was startled and his hand lowered towards his sword as he felt something soft around his shoulders all of a sudden. He looked up, turning his head, as he saw Balthezar’s soft, gentle face looking down at him with concern. He had placed a blanket around Creon’s shoulders, the only blanket Creon had with his bedroll, he realized, and smiled.

“I’ve only one thing left to say and then I will be off to bed,” said Balthezar, “I believe in Tiresius, Tyrantborn or not. I can’t help you hunt him.”

Creon paused, looking up over his shoulder at the green dragonborn. He answered, “I know.”

“I can’t ask you to help me find Caliban if you can’t ask me to find Tiresius. If we must part ways in the morning…”

“I told you already, I’ll help you find him,” Creon insisted, quickly.

Balthezar was silent for a moment, his face turning away from him, before he smiled once again, wider this time, and answered, “Goodnight, Creon.”

With that, he stepped away and laid down on the bedroll curling himself up against the chill he knew he would feel later without a blanket after the fire had died down. Creon watched him go to bed, but soon turned away to stare into the fire a little longer. A rumble escaped his throat as he sighed, consumed in thought. Soon, although not as soon as he knew he should have, he doused the flames and laid down on the stone floor.

\--

_Awake, my pet._

Caliban awoke with a start. He was submerged in water, floating in darkness, only his nose, eyes and the rough ridges on his back above the water, giving him the appearance of a piece of driftwood. His eyes rotated all around. He had no idea where he was. He saw a peek of light from above. It seemed to be gentle morning sunlight. Hadn’t it been the middle of the night?

Caliban held perfectly still, sensing that he was still somehow in danger, but he found that he couldn’t think straight. Whatever was stalking him was elsewhere, and yet he felt the need to keep hiding. However, he realized he was cold, having spent a whole night floating in filthy river water, and knew he needed to find a patch of sun to rest in if he didn’t want to make himself sick. He wished he had awoken in a room with Balthezar. The warm body of the dragonborn would have helped.

It was then he remembered, with some vague dread, that Balthezar was in danger. That was the last thing he knew. He had an image of Balthezar, tears in his eyes, covered in blood, teeth marks on his shoulder.

_Delicious, wasn’t he?_

He remembered, then, the taste of dragonborn blood, and the feel of dragonborn meat on his teeth. He closed his eyes, an almost erotic fervor coming over his body, inspired by the perverse memory of tasting his lover in a way he vowed he never would. He tried to shake his head, disturbing the still water, trying to knock the intrusive thought from his head, but he found it too insistent to ward off. This was strange, wasn’t it? He didn’t think like this. This feeling within, this feeling of passion, was not his. He knew hunger. This wasn’t hunger he felt. It was joy, a joy that belonged to someone else. Moving his tail like a rudder, his snout was a knife through the water as he swam towards the light, and he soon emerged from underneath the docks. He was still for another instant, his eyes seeing the sleepy shoreline of Baldur’s Gate just waking up, and he retreated under the docks, swimming until he found the shore, and could climb up onto the dry rocks under the dock. There, he began to speak, knowing that he was not alone in the dark.

“Who are you?” he asked out loud, quietly, with teeth bared.

_You need not ask._

He heard the words echo in his mind, and, although he wanted to press the question, he found he did not need to, somehow. He did not ask again.

“What do you want?”

_I want what you want, my pet,_ the voice said, seductive and low, and Caliban felt once again strange, seductive emotions passing over him. _You feel that? Love. Passion. Excitement. All of the things you lack._

“You… you made me hurt…” Caliban began, raising his claws to clutch his head. He knew that the voice was in there, and therefore he should rip the voice out. However, he could not. He was holding something in his right claw, something he didn’t realize was there until he felt the cool dampness against his snout. The orb. He spoke to it, instinctively, “You made me hurt Cloudgazer.”

_Cloudgazer is yours, and you are Cloudgazers. That means in all ways, yes?_

“Y-yes…?” he could think of no way to refute the voice’s point. His thinking seemed slow – slower than usual. Why did his mind feel so sluggish when his stomach and heart seemed to flutter so quickly?

_If your friend was hungry, would you not offer a limb for him to eat?_ Asked the voice. Caliban considered the words. Yes. He would feed himself to Cloudgazer if he was starving. That went without saying. He valued his friend’s life over his own. _Then surely the opposite is true. You hunger for him._

“Not… not like that…”

_There is only one hunger, my pet,_ the voice insisted, _You never felt it before, due to the… limitations of your species. I have taken it upon myself to remedy this. You hunger for Cloudgazer. He should give himself to you. If you hunger for his sex, he should lay with you. If you hunger for his meat, he should cut off his leg and give it to you. If you hunger for his blood, he should slit his throat and let you drink of him. Since you would do so for him, so should he for you. It is… the least you both can do._

Caliban tried to find the mistake in the voice’s logic but found he could not. He was so close to realizing why that was wrong. Hurting Cloudgazer was wrong. The voice’s suggestion was offensive to his very being, and yet… his mind accepted it, as if it was instinct. Agreeing with the voice felt like basking in sunlight or resting by a roaring flame. Against the voice, he felt as if he was sinking in dark water, cold, alone, and freezing. He couldn’t out-think it and had no choice but to accept it.

“I… I want Cloudgazer,” said Caliban, as if in a trance, and he began to drool from the memory of his lover’s blood in his jaws, “I… I…”

_Love._

“I love Cloudgazer,” said Caliban, and the flame within began to burn white hot, filling his entire body with a power that seemed so seductive, and yet so comfortable. He realized that the power was coalescing in his hands, and he looked down where he was holding the orb. The flames weren’t just within. He saw that his claws were wreathed in fire as well and he held the flames up to his face. They did not hurt him or burn him. They were his flames, to do with as he saw fit. A gift, for agreeing with the voice.

_Yes…_ the voice muttered, clearly pleased by Caliban’s acceptance of its gift. _In return, my pet, you must stay away from the man with the whip._

In a flash, Caliban remembered the events of the night before. The human with the whip, which caused pain in his body wherever the tip slashed out. He reached up and felt the place on his chest where the radiant energy had burst forth and felt the scales there had healed back up all the way.

_Another gift._ The voice said, _This body is beautiful. Sculpted. Raw. It would be a shame to allow it to fall apart._

All at once he felt the warmth within him grow as energy flowed from the orb. He felt comfort, then, a comfort that reminded him of the beautiful feeling of Cloudgazer’s hands when he invoked his god’s power. At the thought of his Cloudgazer, Caliban began to drool again.

“Stay away from the whipping man,” muttered Caliban, “Where should I go? The whipping man is in Baldur’s Gate.”

_I need… knowledge. My people here have been killed. Your friend. Your Cloudgazer. He is knowledgeable, yes?_

“He is smart. Not like me.”

_That’s alright, my pet. You know where he learned to be so smart, don’t you?_

Caliban thought for a moment. He did. Something within him, a small, frightened part of his being rebelled against the voice. It demanded he not say. Cloudgazer’s past lay there. Cloudgazer’s former life is there. He knew that going there would expose everyone to danger somehow, and yet… the voice was so warm. He had no choice but to mutter the word, although he said it in as quiet a voice as he could. Perhaps the voice wouldn’t hear.

“Candlekeep,” said Caliban, in barely a whisper.

The voice seemed to laugh, a smile evident in the tone, and Caliban felt a sudden rush of cold within him, which caused him to flinch and crouch down on the shore in a sudden agony.

_Don’t try to keep things from me, pet._ The voice demanded, _What was that again? Louder._

“Candlekeep!” Caliban cried this time out loud, and immediately the cold feeling was replaced by warmth, and Caliban relaxed.

_Better._ The voice rumbled in Caliban’s ear, and soon it said, _We should go there._

Go? To Candlekeep? Caliban was confused. Cloudgazer was here. Why would he leave Cloudgazer?

_If you go there, I have a feeling he will follow. You must stay alive, and that means avoiding the man with the whip. But of course, we must prepare ourselves._

Caliban didn’t know how, but the voice was ready to enlighten him.

_We need to go shopping._ The voice said, _For a book._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotspur finds herself in a new, unfamiliar party of heroes, and Balthezar sits in on the investigation of a murder apparently committed by an old friend.

In the dead of night, Hotspur was disappointed when instead of leading their foursome to a hayloft or basement, the old woman brought them quite brazenly to the upper-class neighborhood where she kept a modest apartment. Hotspur questioned the wisdom of bringing them here, not even pretending to use stealth, until she realized that there was nobody on the street. Unlike in the bustling lower city, the upper city was sleepy in the dead of night. Working nights was the business of the peasantry, she supposed, and all of the patriar families likely would not wake until well into the morning light. They were hidden in plain sight, Ms. Shortbread’s favorite place to hide.

Her building was taller and newer than others, but not as tall as certain buildings in the lower city, much closer to the mansions which dotted the landscape. Hotspur knew instinctively why this was – the patriars likely didn’t want their view of the river or mountains obscured by construction that was too tall, and so there were likely zoning ordinances in place that kept Baldur’s Gate from growing too tall. It reminded her of the upper-class neighborhoods in Waterdeep, where her own family’s estate in the North Ward was surrounded by nearly identical mansions, none of which obscured the famous view of Mount Waterdeep.

Ms. Shortbread’s apartment was smaller than Hotspur expected. The wallpaper was flowery and green, and she had furnished it with merely a mahogany writing desk, oil lamps upon the walls, and a sofa decorated with pink blossoms. Plants – low-effort ferns and succulents – were placed strategically all around the front parlor, and the curtains were white and lacy, but also completely opaque, so no one could see in with them drawn. Ms. Shortbread did not give the group much time to speak, however, as she insisted they wait until the morning before she retired to her own room, where a large four-poster bed with thick velvet bedcurtains stood. She offered a share of the bed to little Rosalind, who seemed surprised at the offer, and although she tried to turn it down, Ms. Shortbread’s insistence was too much, and soon the two of them were asleep in her room, leaving Tiresius and Hotspur to their own devices. Barely trusting one another, Tiresius found a plush rug and some tasseled throw pillows to curl up on, and Hotspur, knowing that her oiled armor would probably stain the sofa, doffed it and slept in her leather underclothes.

Now, in the morning, Hotspur was the first to wake. She needed less sleep than the rest, knowing that she wasn’t nearly as hurt as Rosalind, didn’t need to recover her magic like Tiresius, and wasn’t as old as Ms. Shortbread.

Hotspur lay awake, staring at the pristine white of the old woman’s ceiling. Balthezar and Caliban were missing. This was a problem. For that matter, Vanya had slipped away from them, but now they had Tiresius and Rosalind to question. She found herself suddenly worried. What had happened to her friends? Confident that no one could see, she raised a hand to touch her chin in thought, letting her eyes contort themselves to show her concern. The pair could take care of themselves, she knew, although even then that only went so far. In their ways they were both idiots. Balthezar was naïve to a fault – although he was getting better after living in Waterdeep for a couple years – and Caliban was dumb as a bag of rocks even on his best days. Even so, the two were devoted to one another, but if they ever got separated, what would happen?

Her mind drifted then, to the mission Ms. Shortbread had put her on. Vanya Greylash. Pity and intrigue fought against one another in her heart when she thought of this human she had not yet even met. She hoped he was alright, but knew, somehow, that he wasn’t. Seeing his sister undead and tied up had affected Hotspur in ways she didn’t really understand. She thought of her own family, and the dangers that her own adventuring had put them in and thought of what she would do for them if their roles were reversed. Except of course, all Vanya had was his sister. Despite everything, Hotspur – or rather Hellena – had a mother and father who loved her, and their family did not do dark secrets like the Greylashes did. They wore their shames and their triumphs on their sleeve, something she had inherited from both of her parents. Hellena was sure her grandfather would have preferred her mother to have kept Urthgar Skullcrusher a secret affair hidden in the basement of their villa, but she was glad they didn’t. Funny how being away made her realize all the good that her mother and father had done for her, despite all the ways they drove her crazy.

“Looks like you’re thinking mighty hard there, ma’am,” said a gentle voice from the other side of the room, “Anything wrong?”

Hotspur’s face hardened up as she sat up on the sofa, turning her head and scowling. She saw Tiresius laying down on his back, stretching his arms as he lay with eyes closed. He smiled at the pleasant ache of his old bones, and soon opened his eyes and turned to meet Hotspur’s gaze.

“None of your business,” said Hotspur, laying back, stretching her own arms before placing them behind her head and laying back down, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I slept enough,” Tiresius said, stretching his legs this time, before he grunted and began to push himself to a sitting position. He grimaced, his back obviously aching from the hard floor under the rug by the hand rubbing his neck, but he didn’t complain any further. “Usually a morning person in any case. I bet Ms. Shortbread has tea. Shall I make up a pot?”

Hotspur stared at him, turning to grimace in his direction, before she shrugged and sat up, swinging her legs over to meet the floor and standing up.

“Why not!” she cried, stretching herself, before she stood and immediately began to gather the pieces of her armor she had scattered across the floor of their hostess’s front room, “Don’t poison us.”

Tiresius smiled as if she had just made a splendid joke, before he climbed to his feet and walked to a side door which opened on a double hinge, revealing a small kitchen. Propping the door open so he could continue the conversation, the gold dragonborn got to work stoking a small fire in the cooking oven, before he found a kettle and filled it with water pumped from the rooftop cistern. Soon, once the fire was roaring, Tiresius began to set the kettle to boiling, and set up the tea service on a tray. Hotspur watched with a discerning eye. She knew for a fact that she and Ms. Shortbread would know good tea when they tasted it, and she was sure that the halfling would expect something hearty and strong if she grew up in a halfling home. It occurred to her that she didn’t know much about Dragonborn breakfast. Balthezar was useless to ask, as he grew up more elf than Thymari, and so she was eager to judge what the gold creature thought a good cup of tea should be.

“So,” began Tiresius, “I bet you have some questions. I think it would be good to get ‘em out of the way before our hostess wakes up and dominates the conversation.”

The half-orc narrowed her eyes, before she walked over to the open kitchen door and leaned against the frame.

“Sure,” she began, “You know where my partners are?”

“No. Afraid not,” he said, simply.

“Who’s the halfling, and the other dragonborn?”

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling it’s not good for me,” he said, stacking cubes of sugar attractively in a small, square dish with a small pair of tongs, “If I had to guess, the silver was a Thymari bounty hunter.”

“Looking for you?”

He glanced up at her, his face serious for just a moment, before his mouth widened in a bashful smile. He reached up to play with one of his whiskers, before he turned away and found a small icebox. He opened it and found a bottle of milk.

“Yes,” he said, “I explained everything to Balthezar and Caliban.”

“Well, then explain it to me.”

“It’s really quite simple,” he said, pouring the milk into a small ceramic pitcher and walking back to replace the bottle in the ice box, “I’m a demigod.”

“A what?”

“A demigod,” he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “You saw. I can manifest my spirit through the magic coursing through my blood. My material form is what you see before you. If you ever saw me on the astral plane, I promise it would be a fright.”

“So a god got frisky with your grandmother and…”

“Grandfather. Great grandfather, really. A dragon,” he said, “Tiamat doesn’t tend to take consorts among mortals herself. It’s amazing I was ever hatched.”

“Tiamat?” she said, loudly, her eyes widening, “So you are with the cult.”

“I was. Now I’m not. I’m my own man,” he said just as the kettle began to whistle. He smiled as he turned to take it off the stove and, slowly, poured the water into the tea pot to steep with the leaves. “Are you hungry?”

“What?”

“For some breakfast. I saw eggs and bread. I can make toast, and maybe some eggs.”

Toast and eggs. Hotspur was disappointed by how normal that seemed, but she had to admit she had an appetite.

“Fine.”

“It’ll just take a minute then,” he said, with another smile before he got to work, gathering a frying pan and all the ingredients he would need, “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Hotspur. I promise.”

“That’s a lie of omission if ever I heard one,” she replied.

Curious as to what she meant, Tiresius turned away from his work and glanced at her, his face falling.

“Of course we have something to fear from you. You were in the damn cult. Even if you’re out now, and I don’t believe for a second you’ve got nothing to do with them, you’ve already drawn us into your dramatics. Balthezar and Caliban are missing, and now Ms. Shortbread and I are likely to be wanted by the same bounty hunters who want you, not to mention any other Yuan-ti who find out about last night. Balthezar was probably too nice to say so, and Caliban probably didn’t think it through, but you’ve put everyone here in danger just by stepping foot into our lives.”

Tiresius was quiet as he listened, before he turned back to the pan and tilted it back and forth, coating the bottom in butter. He began to fry the bread, quickly turning it so that it was warm and crisp on either side, and then doing the same for three more pieces.

“You’re right,” he said, “I should have told you all about me.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“I couldn’t travel on my own, though, and I can’t just go around telling everyone. I’ve survived a long time, Hotspur. I know my way around situations like this.”

“So what made you come out of hiding all of a sudden?” she asked, “You’ve moved against the cult now. Surely they know you’re involved. They’re probably searching for you.”

He laughed, as he turned the last piece of bread. “To tell the truth? I want to do some good in this miserable world before I pass on. I thought the best place to do it was in Baldur’s Gate. I heard about a magic item the cult was trafficking through here, and I went to go find it. You and your friends weren’t supposed to get involved, but the opportunity presented itself while Balthezar and Caliban were there. They got drawn into it.”

“Magic item?”

“A magic orb. No idea what it does. Caliban has it, wherever he is.”

“But if the cult gets it, it’s bad, yes?”

“Any leg up this or any other cult gains is to the detriment of the world,” he explained as he melted another pat of butter in the pan, swirling it around to coat the cast iron, “It’s my responsibility.”

“Bullshit. You’re out now. You didn’t have to jump into this.”

Tiresius paused, before he tapped one egg on the side of the pan and began to fry it.

“You’ve never dealt with guilt much, have you, young lady?”

“Guilt…”

“I did things. Horrible things. People lost their lives, their livelihoods, their freedom, their sanity… Some lost their bodies, their souls, or worse. Tiamat is not a forgiving goddess. She takes and takes, and the more you give the more she wants. She is the worst kind of evil, and so are her followers. Their hope isn’t for absolution, or deliverance, or even vengeance for their enemies. They want power and think sucking up to a trapped Goddess is their avenue to that power, but that’s folly. All this blood, and torment, and suffering? It’s for nothing. Once she is free, she will wreak havoc on everything, even those who favored her during her long imprisonment. Maybe their souls will find some kind of justice if she favors them enough to fish them out of the river Styx and transform them into Abishai slaves, but no one should expect anything from someone as capricious and chaotic as the five-headed tyrant.”

With that, Tiresius picked up the pan and walked over to a plate, and out of the pan slid four perfect sunny fried eggs. He arranged each one on a plate next to a piece of toast, before loading them all onto the tray with the tea. He then checked a clock upon the wall and, seeing that the tea had steeped long enough, he picked up the tray and carried everything out into the front room. Hotspur stood aside and let him pass, his words having silenced her for a moment. It was what she had always assumed Tiamat would be about, but to hear it from the grave voice of this former cultist was sobering.

“Even someone with her blood?” asked Hotspur, “Surely she would…”

“You kiddin’? I would be the first to die,” he said, “I’m an insult to her existence. She favors dragons and dragons only. Lesser races can hope for enslavement at best and annihilation at worst. Me? I stand too close to her bloodline. She would get rid of me, as well as my whole family if I had one, just to wipe out the impure blood.”

Hotspur wandered back to the sofa and sat as Tiresius placed the tray down on the low table between the sofa and the arrangement of eclectic chairs. Tiresius sat down in one of the chairs and, with a smile, began to pour a cup of tea for Hotspur, mixing it with milk and sugar to her specifications. He offered it up to her, and she took it. She had watched him make it, and had sensed no funny business, and so, she took a sip. It was perfect, but she didn’t want to admit it, and so she put an extra sugar cube in just to spite him.

“It’s fine,” she said, finally, as he poured his own cup, “What I really want to know is what are Yuan-ti doing here? Cultists or no, the sneeple have their own thing going on, don’t they? They don’t worship Tiamat. They have their own gods down in Chult.”

“I don’t know,” he said, “I’ve only heard that the cult of the dragon has had a strange resurgence to the south, and that they were headed north to Baldur’s Gate. That artifact Caliban has might be connected to it.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“And you let Caliban have it?” Hotspur said, tilting her head, “Out of all of us?”

He shrugged, “He volunteered. None of us understand what it is. It doesn’t matter who carries it. The same thing would happen to each of us, so might as well give it to the one who wanted it.”

“Damn you Caliban,” she muttered, before she placed her teacup on the table and began to tuck into the egg and toast. It was small but filling, and she relaxed as she savored the taste of runny yolk on fried bread. “So, what’s our next move?”

“That’s what I would like to know,” a third voice said from the master bedroom, and the half-orc and dragonborn both turned to see the old human standing in the doorway, her grey hair out of its characteristic bun and hanging over her shoulder in a surprisingly long braid. She was wearing house slippers and a demure house dress, and her face brightened when she saw the tea service, “Why, what a surprise.”

Tiresius spoke up, “I thought since we’re imposing upon you, we should make breakfast, ma’am.”

“What’s this ‘we’ business?” asked Hotspur, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You kept me company,” said Tiresius with a smile.

“Oh lovely!” Ms. Shortbread said, walking forward and sitting in the sofa, she called into the room, then, “Oh Rosalind my dear, do hurry. There’s breakfast tea.”

“Coming!” came the voice of the little halfling girl before she too appeared, white book in tow, wearing one of Ms. Shortbread’s old nightgowns. It was far, far too long for her, however, and they had pinned the hem of it up so that she could walk, giving it a strangely voluminous look. Undaunted, she saw the breakfast and brightened up immediately, launching herself forward and taking her seat in a chair next to the dragonborn, sitting on her book to boost her height and snatching a plate from the tray. “Toast! Delish!”

“I’m glad you can speak so confidently when you haven’t even had a bite yet, young lady,” said Tiresius.

At that moment, with the toast halfway to her mouth, Rosalind realized who she was sitting next to and her face fell. However, she was still a halfling, and as if to spite her sudden fear for who she knew to be a dragon cultist… or at least a former dragon cultist, she tucked into her meal, and was soon guzzling down a cup of tea to wash it down.

With her own cup of tea in hand, Ms. Shortbread was smiling towards the dragonborn as she said, “Thank you very much Mr. Tiresius.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am. Least I could do after all this mess.”

“Speaking of mess,” Ms. Shortbread said, glancing over at Rosalind, who had finished up her egg on toast and seemed vaguely disappointed that it was all she had been offered. Seeing this, the old human woman smiled and pushed her own toast towards the halfling with a wink, and the girl looked up at her, before smiling and wordlessly beginning to shovel it down. “Miss Tossfeather. We spoke a little last night of course, but I think you should explain exactly what you were doing at the inn last night.”

“Oh! Right!” said Rosalind around a mouthful of food. She washed it down with another gulp of tea and continued, smiling, “Well, uh, I got kidnapped a while ago by weird snaky-people. Last night, Vanya and Snout came to rescue me.”

“Snout?” asked Hotspur, leaning back on the sofa as she settled in.

“Oh, sorry! The Dragonborn.”

“His name is Snout?”

Rosalind had to laugh, before explaining, “Well, his name is Creon, but he let me call him Snout. Like a nickname. Basically Snout and I went and hid out for a while, before we went to go find out what was going to happen at the Blade and Stars. When we got there, you guys were there, and Creon led the charge.”

“Because he saw me,” said Tiresius.

“Yup. He’s got it out for you. He means well, I promise, but…”

“But he’s hunting you,” said Ms. Shortbread, “And not unprovoked either, considering that sight we saw when we came in.”

“Ah, yes. My heads.”

“‘My heads!’” Hotspur said, mocking the gold’s matter-of-fact tone, “So casual.”

“I can’t help how I was hatched, Hotspur.”

“So, Miss Tossfeather. This Creon person. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s real determined to catch Mr. Tyrantborn here,” said Rosalind, before she looked over and said, with a smile, “Er, no offense?”

“None taken. I’ve heard that little moniker before. Rolls off the tongue, don’t it?”

“Anyway, uh, he’s got bardic magic, but he’s super serious. Like, no jokes, no laughs, maybe he’ll crack a smile if he’s doing the morning crossword sort of humorless. Still, I think he’s a good person. I believed that he was searching for someone dangerous. That’s why I followed him.”

“Uh huh,” said Hotspur, leaning forward, “And what about Vanya?”

“Vanya?” asked Rosalind, before she rubbed her chin and shrugged, “I couldn’t get much of a read on him. I don’t know if he got out of that sewer where they found me. I made him invisible and he seemed stealthy, so I hope he got out. It was a temporary sort of alliance, I think. He and Snout seemed like they were just using one another.”

“Charming,” muttered Hotspur, “Well, we’re looking for Vanya. His family wants him to come home. I need him to show up so we can just meet one another already, say we met to our parents, and go about our business.”

“Oh, Hotspur, aren’t you at all curious?” asked Ms. Shortbread, teasing in her tone, “He seems more and more exciting every day, swashbuckling in to save a damsel in distress.”

“Oh, isn’t it just peachy?” Hotspur said, sarcasm dripping from every word, “Marry the crypt keeper. Oh joy.”

“Crypt keeper?” asked Rosalind.

“The reason he was looking for you, dearie,” said Ms. Shortbread, “He thought you might be able to help him with a little undead problem he’s been having.”

“I… I see,” she answered, tilting her head, “I guess I did get kind of caught up in Snout’s business. It seemed like the two of them weren’t big on communicating.”

“I suppose we should figure out what our next step is,” said Tiresius, “I feel responsible for Balthezar and Caliban.”

“I wanna find Snout and make sure he’s okay,” said Rosalind, worry on her face.

“And of course, Vanya,” said Ms. Shortbread, “Although when things happen all at once like this, it usually means there’s more than a passing coincidence. Trouble moves in herds. If we find one, we’ll likely find the others.”

Hotspur was silent then, as the other three waited for her opinion. She thought for a moment, before she tilted the teacup back and finished the rest. Her mouth split into a wide, toothy grin around her tusks, before she stood up and began to don her armor once again.

“We had better get started. Humans are a dime a dozen, but dragonborn or lizardfolk in Baldur’s Gate can’t be that hard to find. I say we start there, eh Ms. Shortbread?”

The old woman nodded her head, smiling an impish little smile.

\--

The man was dead, that was clear. In the broad daylight of the Baldur’s Gate morning, a murder had occurred in the upper city, just outside of a small shop selling books, spell components, and supplies for wizardry. Few people had seen what happened. Markus Taft, a local hedge mage, was stopping into The Ruby Biblioteque as he did most morning to secure paper and spell reagents, when a shadow suddenly descended upon him. The proprietor of the shop saw only a green blur before Mr. Taft was gone, and his body was discovered an hour later, mauled as if by an animal. His money and his other valuables were still on his person.

Vanya crouched over the body, the city watch hovering a few inches behind, half keeping the growing crowd away and half keeping their eye on this paladin who had stepped into their investigation. They could do nothing to stop him – he was a Greylash, the son of a patriar, and a member in good standing of the house of Tyr besides. It was well within his jurisdiction to inspect the body for his own ends, and he did so on that fateful mid-morning.

The human seemed tired, as if he had barely slept, and his eyes blurred as he looked the body up and down. Taft’s arm was missing completely, with only a torn, empty sleeve where it used to be, and his throat had been completely torn out. His mouth lay open in a frozen scream, and his remaining eye bulged out, the other a blood-red mess of mush where a stray tooth had pierced the soft orb. Up and down the man’s entire body were blood red teeth marks, as well as signs of a struggle. Vanya inspected the man’s legs, where bruises indicated he was dragged somewhere while he was still alive, and the wand clutched in the man’s rigid, dead hand meant he tried to fight back. Still, the lizard was too much for him to take alone. The only question was why?

“You can’t be here, scalebacks!” cried a guard from elsewhere in the crowd, and Vanya barely perked up when he heard the epithet. There weren’t many people in Baldur’s Gate who that insult would apply to. “Get back!”

Sure enough, a familiar voice rose over the crowd, “We heard a man was mauled by an animal, here. I request to inspect the body. I hold rank in the Thymari military. This has to do with Thymari business.”

“This is the Flaming Fist’s turf, draconic scum,” the voice retorted.

“P-please,” another voice said, unfamiliar to Vanya, “My friend is missing. We believe this might…”

“Move along! Move alone, both of you.”

“Wait!” cried Vanya over the crowd, and all of the soldiers fell silent. The thin human straightened up and turned towards the sources of the voice, squinting his eyes as he saw Creon and Balthezar, both taller than most of the humans of the city, towering over the guards holding them back. “Those dragonborn. Let them inspect the scene.”

One of the guards to Vanya’s left scoffed, “The scalebacks, my lord? They have nothing to do with this. This is Balduran business.”

Vanya simply hit the man with a look full of righteous fury, and he seemed to shrink back. Vanya then repeated, “Let them inspect the scene. They are working with me.”

“Y-yes your grace. Of course!” The soldier relented, before he waved a hand. The circle of guards parted, and soon Creon Nastiar and Balthezar Cloudgazer were allowed into the inner circle.

As soon as they laid eyes on the corpse of the man, the green dragonborn raised a hand to his snout, covering his look of anguish as well as he could. He recognized immediately the wounds upon this man’s body. Caliban – or whatever was controlling Caliban – had struck.

Vanya crouched down to continue his own inspection, reaching forward with a gloved hand and turning the dead man’s head this way and that, as he said, “Glad to see you’re not dead, whoever you are.”

“Er… oh. Hello,” Balthezar answered.

“This is Balthezar. Balthezar, this is Vanya,” said Creon, abruptly before he too crouched down to inspect the body, “What do we have?”

“Murder. Mauled by a creature. The teeth are clearly lizard, the same one who attacked the green dragonborn last night.”

“Caliban,” said Balthezar, stepping forward and forcing his hand from his face. He adopted a hard expression, although it wasn’t a very convincing one. “His name is Caliban.”

“You know him?” asked Vanya, turning just barely to look towards Balthezar.

“They’re friends,” Creon answered, knowing that the fewer words spoken the better, “Something’s controlling the lizardfolk, making him attack people.”

“Is it the gold dragonborn you’re hunting?”

With a glance towards Balthezar, Creon paused before answering, “No, but he’s involved. The Yuan-ti were delivering something and these folks intercepted it. Now one of ‘em’s gone mad.”

“This man was a wizard, yes?” said Balthezar, his own distant inspection of the body fueling his curiosity, “Why would Caliban go after a wizard?”

“Food, most likely,” Vanya said, standing up before gesturing to the missing arm, “Your friend in the habit of eating people?”

“No!” Balthezar insisted, furrowing his brow, “Caliban is a sweetheart. He would never, unless this man attacked him.”

“Doubt it,” said Creon as he continued to inspect the body, “He would have shot off a spell first. I don’t see any hints of that. Didn’t even have an armor spell up. Those last half a day without even thinking about it. If he was expecting trouble, he would have cast it before making it.”

“Do we know what spells he could cast?” asked Balthezar, “Perhaps his book…”

Balthezar, emboldened by the conversation turning to his area of expertise, stepped forward and got down on his hands and knees to inspect the body himself. Vanya tensed up as this stranger approached the body, but he stopped when a look and a raised hand from Creon told him to relax. The paladin crossed his arms, staring at Balthezar with unblinking eyes as the dragonborn pulled open the man’s long robes to reveal a skinny frame and blood-stained undershirt. Over the undershirt, there was a leather harness attached, as well as some kind of holster where something square and voluminous could have been stored and fastened. Balthezar blinked his eyes.

“Where is it? Did one of your men take it already?”

“Missing,” said Vanya, “Probably dropped it somewhere.”

“That’s not likely at all. Wizards are very protective of their books. He surely wouldn’t have left it at home. He would have kept it here in this holder, so it couldn’t have fallen. Caliban must have taken it.”

“He’s a meathead, isn’t he?” asked Creon, “What use does he have for a spellbook?”

“Well, uh…” Balthezar began. He didn’t know. Caliban wasn’t studious by nature, and most times he did read it was to please Balthezar. However, he wasn’t dealing with Caliban anymore. Caliban was being controlled. If he assumed someone else was controlling him, there had to be a logical explanation.

“A book. A unique book…” muttered Balthezar.

“Huh?”

“That… that is the price of entry into the library of Candlekeep,” explained Balthezar, sudden worry coming over his face, “We stopped whatever was going to happen with the orb here, but… what if the orb itself is trying to continue whatever ritual it was going to try. All it would know is what Caliban knows, and I’ve told him about my home quite a bit.”

“He’s going to the library?”

“The orb is,” the green dragonborn said, standing up, “We have to leave, now. We can’t let them reach Candlekeep.”

Creon stood as well, “Let me guess. You keep apocalyptic, world-ending texts there.”

“Indeed,” Balthezar said, “If the orb has something to do with the cult of the dragon, then they must be looking for forbidden knowledge.”

“The lizardfolk wouldn’t be able to get into any forbidden archives,” said Vanya, sneering.

“No, of course not,” Balthezar said, “But… if the orb is controlling him, it could control someone else. He could pass the orb to one of the scribes, or someone with library access and… oh Caliban!”

Balthezar turned then, clutching his face, and pushing his way back out of the crowd. Creon moved to follow grabbing him by the arm and preventing him from running off.

“Wait!”

“We have to go! Caliban is in danger!”

“Wait, dammit! It won’t help anyone to rush off half-cocked like this. We go together.”

“I…” Balthezar began, looking back into Creon’s face. It was hard, as always, but as he stared into those green eyes, he could sense a softness and concern there. It calmed the green dragonborn slightly, and he held his chest, trying to will his elevated heartbeat to slow its relentless pace. “You’re right. He can move much faster than we can. He grew up in the outlands.”

“Vanya, where can we hire a fast carriage to Candlekeep?” demanded Creon.

The ruddy-haired human stared at the two dragonborn, before he tilted his head in thought. He left the body behind, and immediately, the guards surrounding him descended upon it, allowed to begin their own investigation now that the paladin was finished. With his hands on his chin, Vanya was deep in quiet thought, before he said, “In the outer city. Cheap horses, but fast. Don’t bother with the carriage, it would only slow us down.”

“Us…?” Balthezar asked, “You’re coming too, sir…?”

“Vanya is fine,” muttered the human, walking past the two dragonborns, and leading them to the east, towards the basilisk gate. “Come.”

Balthezar blinked, but soon followed. He wondered why the guards had been so deferential towards this ratty-looking human, but he had to trust him.

As he thought this, Creon stepped close to him as they walked on, bending down to whisper to the other dragonborn, “You might lose track of your other friend if we leave now. You think we should wait?”

Of course! Hotspur! Balthezar had forgotten all about Hotspur in the excitement but realized that they couldn’t stop now. She would have to catch up.

“I’ll inform her of where we’re going,” he said, “She can find us.”

And with that, Balthezar reached up to grab hold of his holy symbol and issued a small prayer to the wind, before he straightened up and began to dictate, sending his words magically though the air, carefully thinking each word through before he uttered it.

“Caliban is in trouble. He is headed to Candlekeep. Following with two companions, Creon and Vanya. Follow if you wish, leaving now.”

He considered ending the message there. It was enough for Hotspur to follow. However, he opened his eyes and glanced over at Creon, who had turned forward to follow closely in Vanya’s footsteps. Grimacing, and knowing what might happen should Tiresius and Creon’s paths meet, he took advantage of the last three words of his sending.

“Leave Tiresius behind.”

“You coming, Cloudgazer?” demanded Creon as the green dragonborn lagged behind his two new companions. The librarian adjusted his spectacles, before he hurried his pace to catch up with Creon and Vanya. He hoped to see Hotspur soon. He felt rather alone with these two stone-faced mercenaries, although he was glad that Creon, at least, seemed to have a heart underneath that rough exterior.

\--

The message came through just as Hotspur and Ms. Shortbread entered Eastway, on their way to continue their investigation at the Blade and Stars to find another clue. Tiresius, disguised in a long cloak which obscured his tail, and Rosalind, having bought a brand-new green dress and shoes on the way, flanked the two of them. They seemed a proper adventuring party – colorful, imposing, and mysterious. As Hotspur received Balthezar’s message, her face fell, and she swore.

“Damn it Balthezar, hold on for a minute! Let us catch up. What do you mean?” replied Hotspur.

However, no matter how long she waited, there was no answer. Balthezar couldn’t send another, or had chosen not to, and the half-orc crossed her arms, gripping her armor hard.

“Gods!” she cried.

“What did he say, Hotspur?” asked Ms. Shortbread.

“Balthezar found Vanya. They’re leaving town chasing after Caliban!”

“Ah! You were right, Ms. Shortbread,” said Rosalind, “Trouble does move in herds.”

She nodded with a slightly disappointed smile, and Hotspur could tell that she didn’t like having the answer handed to her so quickly. Even so, Hotspur was glad that Balthezar was okay.

“So, where are they going?” asked Tiresius.

“Candlekeep, apparently,” said Hotspur, “Caliban is headed there. No idea why.”

“And Vanya is with him?” asked Ms. Shortbread.

“And that Creon person.”

Rosalind shouted “Snout!” happily.

Tiresius’ face grew hard at this information, but he nodded his head. “This will be difficult.”

“For the rest of us, maybe,” said Hotspur, before she turned and placed a hand on the old dragonborn’s shoulder, “You’re not going.”

“What?” Tiresius asked, confusion on his face.

“I said you’re staying here,” repeated Hotspur, “Balthezar said so. He’s with Creon. Creon wants you dead. Better that you stay behind and lay low.”

“But Caliban has the orb. I can’t rest until I know that orb is safe out of the hands of the cult.”

“Sure you can, old man,” Hotspur sneered, before she turned away from him and continued to walk, “Leave it to the rest of us. We’ll be fine.”

“Still… this is my burden. I can’t just…”

“I don’t think you understand me, old man!” Hotspur said, turning on her heel and coming tusk-to-whisker with the older gentleman, “Balthezar said you’re not coming.”

“Cloudgazer said that?”

“You know him. He’s worried. Probably doesn’t want Creon cutting off your head. I’m inclined to agree. We all have to work together here, now. Caliban is in trouble. The best thing you can do is stay out of it. You’ve done enough.”

Tiresius was silent at this admonishment. He scowled, the meanest expression Hotspur had ever seen on the kindly old man’s face, but she stood firm.

“Don’t test me,” Hotspur muttered, darkly.

“I suggest you not test me either, Hotspur,” Tiresius retorted.

“Oh sure, you’ve power enough,” said Hotspur, pulling out her greataxe and standing at her full height, “But a few swipes of this axe and all that godly blood of yours will spill all over the floor. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Hotspur!” cried Rosalind.

A hand on Hotspur’s shoulder caused her to turn and see Ms. Shortbread’s face, expressionless, as she said, “I’m sure he gets the point, Hotspur. No need to make it violent.”

Tiresius stared at the half-orc then, before he looked away, a silent resignation from the adventure. There was an inner torture on his face that caused Hotspur a fair bit of pity, but she ignored it. She hated pity.

“Come on,” she said, turning and leading the other two women away, stowing her axe, “Maybe we can catch up to them on the road.”

“If Tiresius doesn’t go…” said Rosalind suddenly, “I don’t wanna go.”

There was silence again as Hotspur and Ms. Shortbread turned to stare down at the dark-skinned halfling with a hand on her hip. Hotspur narrowed her eyes, before she shrugged and kept walking.

“You can jump off a bridge for all I care,” she said, “It’s Vanya who wants your help, not me.”

Ms. Shortbread said nothing more, but merely parted with a sad little smile as she left the two of them behind. Soon, Tiresius and Rosalind were standing alone in the streets, and the half-orc and human disappeared into the crowd.

“I thought you wanted to go after Creon,” said Tiresius, “You seem to be friends with him.”

“I’m friends with you now, too,” she said, “You made excellent tea and those eggs on toast hit the spot.”

Tiresius had to laugh, “That’s a lie, Rosalind. Surely you have another reason.”

She smiled, before she pulled a small rosewood wand from her pack that she had picked up on the way. She twirled it in her fingers and hugged her book to her chest.

“I just got a feeling, y'know? More friends is better. We're gonna need something from everyone if we want to figure out what's going on and fight it. That's how it works in adventuring groups, right? If you go, I go,” she said, “You’ve seen what I can do. I can get us there without a fuss.”

“But what about Creon?”

“Leave Snout to me,” she said, her smile fading into one of worry, “He’s in pain, y’know? He wants your head because he thinks he has no other choice. If we can show him a better way…”

“That’s a pretty big if,” Tiresius muttered, his smile finally returning, “And with my life on the line if you fail.”

“You’re going anyway, aren’t you?”

“… I have to go,” he said, “That orb cannot exist in this world.”

“Then we’ll go together, and Hotspur and Ms. Shortbread never need to know.”

Tiresius considered the offer for a moment, before he smiled even wider, his whiskers rising up with his smile, and he reached down to shake her hand.

“You’ve got a deal, my dear.”

“Yes!” she cried, eagerly reaching up to shake the dragonborn’s large golden claw.

“We can walk and talk,” he said as he began to walk in the same direction that Hotspur and Ms. Shortbread went, “I think I would like to know a little more about this Creon person if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll tell you,” she said, “If you tell me what they used to call you when you were a hatchling.”

He laughed, “You drive a hard bargain, missy, but I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed by the answer.”

He continued to chuckle, as she walked alongside him, staring up into his smiling face.

“Why? What was it?”

“I don’t think ‘Deathbringer’ is the kind of cute nickname you were hoping for,” he said with one last laugh, and the disappointment on Rosalind’s face was palpable.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dead of night, Creon and Balthezar begin to bare their souls, and find a sudden spark beginning to light within them.

Candlekeep was five days ride out from Baldur’s gate, over the Chionthar river and southeast along a well-trod dirt road. With no idea how Caliban was traveling, Balthezar, Creon, and Vanya opted to simply ride out on fast horses and hope they could make it before the lizardfolk could. Every few hours, for as long as Balthezar’s magic stores held, he tried to locate Caliban via inspiration from his divine magic, but they weren’t close enough yet. Eventually, the first day of travel came to an end, and the three of them set up a camp by the side of the road, with Vanya establishing a perimeter around the fire to ward off any beasts or bandits who might have regarded the camp as an easy target. This left Creon tending to the horses, and Balthezar sitting and staring into the fire with a hollow, worrisome expression, alone.

Creon, after affixing feedbags to each of the three strong horses they had been overcharged for in the outer city, turned and watched Balthezar. He had been watching the green dragonborn for most of the trip, recognizing the heartsick way he had been searching for Caliban in his desperation. Pity welled up in Creon’s heart as he considered for a moment how he might help.

Meanwhile, Balthezar’s mind was racing. With hands clasped and the rest of his body limp, he considered his options. Communing with Deneir in the morning might have been an option to try to find out what had happened to Caliban and how they might help him. Otherwise, spells to facilitate travel – creating food and water from nothing or spells to show them the way – seemed important. For that matter, he wondered if sending a message to Caliban would have been a good idea. Would he even respond? Would it alert whatever had infested him that they were chasing him? Would it be better to simply chase him quietly?

His roiling thoughts were interrupted when something was waved in front of his face. Backlit by the firelight, he couldn’t quite make out what it was as Creon offered it to him, until he took it and found that it was a slice of crusty bread which smelled of rosemary, with a generous pat of butter spread on it. He looked up and watched as Creon sat down next to him with his own bread and butter, and their eyes met.

“Thinking about Caliban?” asked Creon, softly.

“I… I am.”

“You got a caring heart, Balthezar Cloudgazer,” said Creon, “For your teammates, your lover, even an old man you just met with a dark past. Seems like you want to make sure there’s a good outcome for everyone.”

“… It’s hard, sometimes,” said Balthezar, staring at his bread and not taking a bite, “It’s gotten me in trouble before.”

“But you’ve gotten out again.”

“Not without some costs,” he answered with a laugh and a shrug, “Caliban died once. I never forgave myself for letting that happen. I vowed it would never happen again.”

“The way you care for that lizardfolk,” Creon said, gently, “It’s enough to make a body jealous.”

Balthezar straightened up at this, blinking his eyes, before he turned towards Creon, who was nonchalantly eating his bread and butter. The thinner dragonborn searched for how to respond to this but found he couldn’t. He took a bite of his dinner. It was good bread, fresh baked the day before and still soft on the inside. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

“Er…” he muttered once he had swallowed his bite of bread, trying to say the right thing, “Creon?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever have…?” he began, before he paused and started over, “I know about your former betrothal, but… did you ever have someone you cared about? Someone you wanted to spend your life with?”

Creon stared at Balthezar, mid-chew, and took his time to finish his mouthful before he spoke, “A couple. Never worked out.”

“Oh?”

He shrugged, “‘Hatchling stuff’ is not really that uncommon, y’know? Especially in training. You spend all your time with the men and women around you, trusting your lives in their hands, and putting their lives in yours, you start feeling a connection. Connections like that start feeling like love.”

“So…?”

“They don’t last,” he said, darkly, popping the last of the bread in his mouth and chewing it, swallowing it quickly, “There’s always a marriage contract, or a girl back home, or responsibility to lay some eggs to continue the clan. We both understand, we have some fun, we part ways, we lose track of one another, and the next time we run into one another it’s like we’re strangers all over again. All my sweethearts have families and wives now. I woulda had one myself, if not for my damn arm.”

“Did you want a family?”

He shrugged, “With one of the boys in basic? Yeah. There’s a couple I saw myself bucking tradition for. It ain’t illegal or even frowned upon, y’know. It’s just… the clan. The clan’s gotta continue. Father made sure I understood that with dead certainty.”

“And then it all went away,” muttered Balthezar, “I’m sorry.”

A deep sigh caused Creon’s shoulders to rise and fall, and he raised a strong arm to run a hand along one of his long horns. Balthezar watched him do this, seeing his expression sink into near annoyance, before cracking into a sort of deep sorrow he hadn’t seen from Creon before. The silver’s eyes then darted towards the green, and he hardened his face once again.

“It’s fine. If I can bring back the head of a Thymari criminal…”

“Your life will be back on track?” asked Balthezar, looking away, “You can marry that girl? Have some children?”

“My father would respect me.”

“I suppose I don’t understand,” said Balthezar, quietly, “I never had a father, not really. Closest person I had was one of the master scribes. He was kind, but… detached. More a teacher than a father. He always made it clear that I had to make my own way in the library. His help would only go so far.”

“Bet they didn’t fault you for getting caught carrying on with fellow soldiers well past time for you to be settling down.”

“I wouldn’t know. My first was Caliban, when I was out on my own in the world. I never felt any connection to elves or dwarves or humans, not in that way. It hadn’t occurred to me to think about it. When I began to encounter… people outside for the first time I simply had no interest at all in women. It was never more complicated than that. It’s hard for me to imagine living with such…”

“Strict rules?”

“Y-yes.”

Creon shrugged and tilted his head, refusing to look at Balthezar, “Lucky son of a bitch you are.”

The harsh words made Balthezar look towards Creon, expecting to see anger there. However, the deep sorrow had returned to Creon’s face, and his silver scales had gone a deeper shade as he seemed to blush. Pity bloomed in Balthezar’s stomach.

“You don’t have to, you know?” said Balthezar with a smile, “You’re your own man. Following the clan isn’t required for happiness. You can make a life for yourself out here.”

“You don’t know anything,” snapped Creon, turning back to Balthezar, his tone nasty. Nevertheless, Balthezar did not flinch, expecting as he did this sudden shift in tone. “What are you smiling at?”

“I don’t know anything, that’s true. Perhaps that’s why I’m happier to be free of all that,” he answered, “But I know that… I know that love is potent. Perhaps you can find it if you let the past go. Fulfil your dream to be with someone like one of those soldiers you carried on with.”

“That dream is dead, Cloudgazer,” said Creon, “Love ain’t in the cards for me.”

“Don’t say that!” Balthezar said, his voice rising, “None of what happened was your fault.”

“I…” Creon began. He seemed as if he was about to turn towards Balthezar and say something, his face contorting in pain and, if Balthezar wasn’t mistaken, guilt. His face hardened again, covering up his pain, and he leaned in, looming over Balthezar.

“C-Creon?”

“What you got with Caliban… is that love?”

Balthezar paused for a moment, before he answered, “In a way. Not the love I mean, I think, but a sort of love.”

“Because reality got in the way,” spat Creon, “Because his kind can’t, and no matter how much you want it, he can’t give it to you, right?”

“I…”

“I’m…” Creon began, his voice rising, as he continued to lean towards Balthezar, his eyes widening. His breathing was growing shallower as his emotions seemed to run over his cool, controlled exterior. Balthezar realized he was looking down at him in that moment with something approaching jealousy, or was it sorrow? Either way, the green dragonborn knew he couldn’t let this stand.

In a sudden movement, the green sat up on his knees, turning fully towards Creon. Despite the mean words and nasty feelings moving between them, he could tell Creon was in pain. All of his feelings about his father, his life back home, and for everything he lost along the way was bubbling over. If Balthezar didn’t do something, he would simply push them all down again, and would keep pushing and pushing until he burst from all of the feelings he didn’t allow himself to feel. He did the only thing he could think of to do and threw his arms around Creon’s shoulders in a gentle, warm embrace, pushing up against the silver’s larger body, leaving Creon suddenly wide-eyed and astonished. They stayed like that, Creon limp and Balthezar clutching onto him with his eyes closed, until Balthezar finally spoke.

“It’s going to be alright, Creon,” said Balthezar, calmly, “You don’t have to pretend everything is fine.”

“Cloudgazer…”

Balthezar pulled away, and slowly placed his own snout inches from Creon’s, smiling. Creon’s blush seemed to deepen at this close contact between them, as did Balthezar’s, but he ignored it, instead continuing to speak.

“When I was about… five years old,” Balthezar began, taking one of his hands from Creon’s shoulders and taking off the glasses perched on his snout, “I found I was severely nearsighted. Without my spectacles, I can hardly see much further than your face. I had to be fitted for a pair, and everyone began to make fun of me.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Hush. Let me make my point,” snapped Balthezar, “That’s where my name came from. Cloudgazer. I had stared up at the clouds so long I had gone blind, they said. I was… ashamed of the name for a long time. Even my professors used it. When I left, I vowed I would leave it behind, but… I couldn’t escape it, and good thing too.”

“Why?”

“Because Caliban began to use it. And then my friend Puck, and even Pequod and Hotspur. I realized that running away from the name wasn’t what I should have done. Embracing the name… Embracing what I was ashamed of, that was the true way to dispel my shame.”

With that, Balthezar reached down and touched Creon’s right arm. The skin was colder than the rest, and it did not flinch when he touched it, but even so, he lifted the arm up and embraced it with both hands.

“You’ve done amazing things, precisely because of this injury, Creon Nastiar,” he said, slowly, his soft face pleading with the silver dragonborn to understand, “It’s the same as my eyes. Without glasses I would have never been so bookish and fallen in love with the study of magic. Without your arm, you would have never learned to compensate for it, and surpass your former skills with magic. You and I never would have met, in either case. I’m not saying you should feel good about it, because I… I can see how much pain it’s put you through, but… I am saying that trying to go back to the way things were before the injury? That isn’t a solution. We can never go back to the way things were. We can only… look forward. Do you understand?”

As Balthezar spoke, Creon’s face had fallen into slack astonishment. His eyes widened, and he could feel himself blinking harder as the speech carried on. He felt something, within, something he hadn’t properly felt in a long time. It was a nostalgic feeling, like finding an old, beloved toy, and yet he found it by staring into the soft face of this kindly green dragonborn who seemed to care for him for no other reason than he had a deep pain inside that even he hadn’t been able to address. He closed his mouth, swallowing hard, and breathed raggedly, the flutter in his chest and stomach making it difficult. He wasn’t sure whether he would sob or scream, and he raised his other arm, suddenly, bracing himself against Balthezar’s shoulder. He leaned forward, instinctively knowing what he wanted, even if his mind hadn’t quite put it together yet, and Balthezar’s face split into a look of wide-eyed surprise as the tips of their snouts touched. This intimate gesture seemed to empty both of their minds, Creon no longer thinking of his pain, and Balthezar no longer concentrating on the right words to say to help this new friend of his, and for a moment there was an unaddressed, mutual attraction which ran between them. Through the contact of their eyes, each could see that the other was feeling it as well, and Creon’s breath grew deep as he closed his eyes, beginning to lean against this green who seemed to care so much about him. Balthezar, for his part, did not pull away, but neither did he lean forward.

“Perimeter is secure,” a sudden voice said, shattering the mood and causing both dragonborn to pull away from one another. Off-balance suddenly, Balthezar fell back onto his posterior, his legs unfolding from under him, and Creon straightened his back and stared straight into the fire, before turning to look at Vanya.

“What?” he said, finally.

“Perimeter is secure,” repeated Vanya, hair in his eyes, barely registering the intimate moment he had so roundly destroyed, “I’m going to sleep.”

Heedless of Creon’s nasty stare, Vanya unpacked a bedroll from his horse and began to set it up. Soon, he was asleep, and the two dragonborn were alone once again.

Balthezar was the first to speak, “I… I should go to bed as well.”

“Yeah,” was all Creon could say as Balthezar stood, smiling down at Creon, before he too took his bedroll from his horse’s saddlebag and began to unroll it. Creon watched Balthezar set up a place in the campground for himself, until the green creature pulled off his chainmail and slid under the covers. That’s when he noticed Creon staring and smiled. He considered something for a moment, an uncharacteristically naughty expression coming over the green dragonkin’s soft face, and for a moment, Creon had a thrill. However, cooler heads prevailed, and Balthezar let the thought pass without vocalizing it.

“Goodnight, Creon,” he said, lying back, leaving Creon with his thoughts alone, until he too stood and began to set up his own bedroll.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caliban, dying of exhaustion, is taunted by the power that has come to control him, tortured by a vision of his Cloudgazer.

It was a good four days of hard trudging through all weather up the coast before Caliban finally saw some hint of where the voice was forcing him to go. He had not slept in days. He felt the exhaustion deep within, but with the exception of hastily consumed meals, the lizardfolk was roused by that horrific heat every time he tried to lay his head down to rest. Despite this, he realized that he did not seem to be growing weaker. He knew that walking nonstop for so long should have killed him, but there was something about the orb which was not allowing him to die, somehow, and indeed, his strength kept on. Still, it seemed torturous, this long trek enslaved as he was to the will of the orb.

_You require rest, then?_

The voice had become cruel and hissing in his ears. The lizard flinched. His only recourse had been to stay silent and try not to attract the ire of this strange, evil personality which had taken him over. However, the orb seemed to get bored every now and then, and when it got bored, Caliban usually suffered.

“No…” he said, his voice breathy, and barely above a whisper. His body was falling apart, and yet he felt honed, as if he could kill at the drop of a hat. He remembered that human the orb had forced him to murder – or rather, the orb had let him watch while his body moved on its own, taking nourishment from the man’s flesh, before grabbing the book and running. They had subsisted for the next two days on the remains of that man’s severed arm, and starved for another day, before being allowed to hunt and eat on the fourth. Candlekeep must have been close. If they were all as good as Cloudgazer, perhaps they could free him from this torment.

_Oh, that’s too bad,_ said the voice, _I was going to suggest a nice sit by the ocean, but if you still feel as if you can go on._

Caliban’s face turned to regard the sea of swords, and the clear blue water that shone in the high sunlight. He truly longed to swim and sleep by the sea and turned towards the pebbly beach. However, he felt a fiery pain in his stomach, and hunched over, hissing in pain.

_You said you could go on, my pet. Did you lie to me?_

“I…” he muttered, searching for the right words to say to stop the pain, “I… wanted to swim. I want to rest. I can’t…”

_So, worthless bravado then, in saying you could go on?_

He hardly knew what the words meant, but he understood the mockery in them. He felt the fire ignite anew, and his hiss rose to a screech. He fell to his knees.

_Beg, pet. Perhaps I will allow it._

“Please…” muttered Caliban, hating himself for stooping to such a low, “I cannot go on. I will die…”

_You die when I command it, slave!_ The voice screamed in his ear, and he held his hands to the sides of his head, eyes whirling around. However, a gentle rumble soon came over him, and the fire in his belly subsided. _But since you begged so sweetly, perhaps for a little while._

He felt control of his body return to him, and he wasted no time, afraid of what the voice would do if he spurned this gift of free movement. He ran towards the water, intending to dive right in, but he felt himself stop, suddenly, and the voice, its tone sweet and mocking, spoke.

_Do not ruin the book, my pet. We need it._

He pulled the book out of the pack at his side then and stared at it. It was a ratty, leather tome, hardly worth anything. Still, he treated it as a priceless treasure as he set it down gently on a rock, and laid it down next to the pack he had stowed it in, before he turned towards the water and dove in.

The coolness seemed to immediately cause Caliban a wave of relief after walking in the harsh sunlight for so long. He was overheated, and exhausted, and the cold water surrounding him immediately shocked his system, clearing his mind somewhat. He swam, blissful silence surrounding him as he did, and he did not surface until he could feel the air in his lungs turning sour, forcing him to surface after a scant fifteen minutes. He bobbed up to the surface then, dangling his limbs into the water as he floated on the top, his nostrils, eyes, and back the only things visible from the beach, and he closed his eyes to sleep.

_Oh no, pet. We still have a long way to go._

Still? He was not allowed to rest? He tried to will his body into stillness, to try to wrest control of himself away from the entity but found that he was still swimming towards the shore. Even so, he managed to fight it just enough that the swim was painful and slow, and the voice chuckled in his ear.

_How cranky we are._

Let me sleep. I need rest.

_Do you have any idea how close we are?_ The voice explained, _How close the man with the whip is?_

The man with the whip, the bogeyman that the voice held over his head, forcing him to replay the pain of the divine smite over and over. However, that was not the end of the orb’s taunt.

_He travels with your Cloudgazer, now. Do you know this?_

Cloudgazer… the sound of the name caused his jaws to drip with hunger. He stopped fighting then, and swam to shore, before his body sat down in the sand.

_Perhaps I have been a little cruel. Still, I only do it because I know this strong body of yours will hold._

Was that… remorse he sensed in the orb’s voice? He reached down into his coinpurse and withdrew the orb, staring down into it. He realized that there was a strange, red smoke within where the disc should have been, which roiled and spun around the glass, presenting cloud-animals to Caliban’s eyes.

_Would you like to see him? Your Cloudgazer?_

See Cloudgazer? He said, “Yes,” without even thinking, and the voice chuckled at his eagerness, before the smoke began to coalesce. Caliban’s eyes widened, both focusing deep within the ball, and staring down into the vision which was forming in the smoke. Soon, he began to make out colors and shapes, and soon, he saw him, green and spectacled. He recognized the area Balthezar had stopped in – it was only half a day behind him, and the green dragonborn was allowing his horse to rest. He watched eagerly, his jaws dripping as he did, his heart filled with a jealous longing…

\--

Balthezar was tired, but it was a good ache, he decided. He had never been much of a rider. He was slight of build and relatively clumsy, but he was stronger than he looked, and could take more punishment than most people assumed upon seeing him for the first time. He was by no means as hearty as his two travel companions, but he was happy that he was keeping up.

He yawned, opening his long draconic jaw wide, before he turned away from his horse drinking from the bucket of fresh water he had set out for it. He blinked his eyes and reached up to take his spectacles from his snout. He held them close and saw a spot on them, probably dirt from the road, and pulled a washcloth from a pocket, wiping them off fastidiously, and putting them back on. As he did, his unblurred vision noticed Creon approaching him, his own horse seen to. Balthezar smiled.

“Hello Creon,” said Balthezar, adjusting his glasses and walking forward.

“Cloudgazer,” Creon said, simply, before he held up two objects. One was a knapsack where Balthezar knew he kept his trail rations, and the other was the familiar bottle of Thymari whiskey, “Bite to eat, maybe?”

“And a drink? I think that would be splendid,” said Balthezar, gesturing for Creon to follow as they walked over to a few large rocks on the pebble beach which worked well as impromptu seats.

The two of them sat, facing the water, and Creon pulled a hunk of hard cheese from his pack, as well as the remains of the bread from days ago. It had staled by that point, but still he bit a chunk from the hardened loaf before handing the rest to Balthezar. He then produced two water cups, filled both with firewhiskey and offered one.

Balthezar smiled as he took the cup, already sensing the strong, peppery odor he remembered from that day. He held up the cup and said, “Cheers, Creon.”

Creon nodded and took a drink, and so did Balthezar. He still flinched at the taste, but it resolved itself more quickly this time into pleasant spice, and the aftertaste made the simple meal of cheese and bread more satisfying somehow.

“Cloudgazer,” said Creon, leaning forward on his knees, his cup held in both hands as he stared down into the deep amber liquid in the glass, “About the other night.”

Balthezar ceased chewing for a moment as he paused, and pointedly looked away, blushing deep green.

“What about it?” he asked, once his mouth was no longer full.

“I’ve been thinking since then. You… you’re right. I know you are. You said things then that… that I’ve been trying to say to myself for a long time.”

“Creon…”

“I don’t know… I don’t know how to stop being what I am now, though,” Creon stammered, grimacing, before he straightened up and pounded the last of his firewhiskey, hissing at the harsh burn, “I thought I was helping you. I saw how you were suffering for Caliban, but… you turned it around on me, and now…”

“Hush. It’s fine,” Balthezar interrupted, “I’m a cleric, remember? Holy man. It’s my responsibility to make sure everyone is well. That doesn’t just mean bodily either.”

“I don’t feel any better, really. It feels like you picked a scab or something, and now it’s bleeding all over.”

“It couldn’t just be a scab. Scabs heal eventually,” said Balthezar, “If it doesn’t, then there’s something else wrong.”

Creon laughed lightly in surprisingly good humor, before he took a bite of cheese and chewed thoughtfully. Balthezar watched him eat for a moment, before looking down at his hand, lying numb in his lap. He watched it with pity, tracing the long scar which had spelled the end of Creon’s former life, and he wondered for a moment where Creon’s life would lead after this. It couldn’t be as simple as going back to Tymanther in triumph. That bridge was already burned. His family would have all but disowned him by now. Creon, he realized, had nowhere to go, and the only one who hadn’t realized it yet was Creon himself, too blinded by his desperation to make up for what his clan saw as mistakes.

Slowly, Balthezar reached over and took Creon’s hand in his own. Creon didn’t realize Balthezar had touched him until the green dragonborn started to move his limp arm, pulling it towards him.

“Cloudgazer?” he asked.

“Just… wanted to… inspect it,” Balthezar said, simply holding Creon’s hand. The fingers of his numb hand moved to twine together with Balthezar’s, and Creon wished he could feel the green’s warmth.

Creon paused for a moment, blinking his eyes. He hadn’t expected the librarian to be so forward, honestly, and smiled, impressed. Balthezar, for his part, seemed almost not to realize how obvious he was being, and the silver had to chuckle a little at that.

“Wh-what?” asked Balthezar, “What’s funny?”

“I thought you had a thing going with Caliban,” said Creon, gently, although he didn’t pull his hand away.

“Caliban is… my best friend, and… yes, my lover.”

“But…?”

“But, well, things have been different lately. I sense it is nearly time to end it,” said Balthezar, his face falling from its bashfulness into a sort of shameful disappointment, “He wants to have children someday. I think he feels as if he’s running out of time. I don’t want him to feel as if I’m holding him back from that.”

“But if you feel…”

“He and I sorted out my feelings long ago,” Balthezar said quickly, tightening his grip on Creon’s hand, “It was always temporary, at least the physical aspect of it. Needs change. He taught me that. Friendship is what I need from Caliban now.”

“And what do you need from me?” asked Creon, glancing over with narrow, amused eyes.

“Um…” Balthezar said, reaching over with his other hand to caress up the side of the silver dragonborn’s arm. He felt the bulge of the thick muscles of his bicep, the injury not robbing his arm of any of its strength, and he breathed in deeply as he did, not daring to look directly at the current object of his unexpected desire. “Need? I don’t know if need is the right word.”

“Want, then?” Creon said, dropping the empty tin cup on the beach and raising his left hand as he turned his body towards Balthezar’s, touching the green dragonborn under his chin, “Is this what you want?”

“I… I…” stammered Balthezar. He thought he had been holding it together so well, but this man had taken him suddenly off guard. He blinked his eyes hard as their snouts hovered an inch apart from one another.

“I ain’t interested in pussyfooting around, here, Cloudgazer,” Creon said, his voice low and husky, “You’re the one digging deep into my past, my sex life, my hang-ups about my clan… I get it. You’re trying to help, but you want something from me too, don’t you?”

“I… um… Creon, I…”

“Don’t you?”

Balthezar breathed in sharply as Creon’s hand traced its way down the front of his neck over his chainmail shirt, and soon came to rest on one of his legs, giving it a solid squeeze. Balthezar’s sharp intake of breath helped him to put his mind in order. He realized what Creon was saying. There was no use denying the attraction.

“I… worry it will…” began Balthezar, “get in the way of business. Get in the way of finding Caliban.”

“I’m a better tracker than that, Cloudgazer,” Creon said, pushing his face forward and nuzzling the side of his snout against Balthezar’s. Balthezar’s eyes closed at the intimate contact and he let go of Creon’s hand, allowing himself to explore the rest of the silver dragonborn’s hard body. “We’ll find him. I just hope he won’t mind…”

“He… he won’t. I’m sure of it,” said Balthezar, with a nervous laugh, “We have an… uh… understanding.”

“If you say so,” Creon said, wrapping his arms around Balthezar, their meal forgotten in their impromptu intimacy, “We probably have a few minutes until Vanya insists we load up and keep moving.”

“N-now?” asked Balthezar, before the corners of his mouth rose in an amused grin, “I thought you said you weren’t a bard.”

“Huh?” asked Creon, his own passion-addled brain confused at the remark as he pulled away from nuzzling into Balthezar’s neck.

“Just…” began Balthezar, realizing that the first few buttons of Creon’s uniform had fallen open, revealing the deep crevice of his muscular chest, and the soft, white scales stretched taut over them. The sight sent the punchline of his joke out of his head, and he said, “Forget it.”

With that, Balthezar launched himself forward, and the two dragonborn laughed at the sudden playful roughness of the librarian. They rolled together behind the rocks, hiding from Vanya’s prying eyes as they chuckled and rubbed their faces together, letting their hands explore underneath the other’s clothes, knowing they likely wouldn’t have time to shuck them fully before it was time to leave. Giggles became moans as Creon nibbled on Balthezar’s neck, and he felt the silver’s strong hands snake their way to his most tender parts, causing him to gasp and go wide-eyed at the wonder of what he was doing, and with whom he was doing it.

\--

Caliban watched, eyes wide, face impassive. The deep ridges cut beneath his eyes from exhaustion seemed to deepen even further as he watched this stranger taste his Cloudgazer. The part of his mind still under his own power felt nothing. What Balthezar said was true. They did not need to remain mated to be bonded for life. He wondered who this stranger was, and why Cloudgazer seemed so smitten, and he wanted to speak with him to see if he was truly worthy, but if Cloudgazer liked him then he must have been a good person. That part of his mind trusted Balthezar, but a different, unfamiliar part of his brain seemed to burn across him, consuming his lizard brain in unfamiliar feelings. There was a deep, dark feeling in his belly then, a strange, unpleasantness that he felt as deep down as his bowels.

_Hate._

The voice named the feeling, or perhaps simply commanded him to feel it, and all at once it all fell into place. He felt, for the first time, hate, as the softskins feel. Hate for Cloudgazer, for betraying him with this stranger, for giving him what was rightfully Caliban’s. Hate for this stranger for taking Cloudgazer as his own. Hate for the orb for making him watch as the two dragonborn’s coupling grew more impassioned and desperate. Finally, he felt hate, most distressingly, for himself. He had allowed this. He had trusted Cloudgazer, and this was how he was repaid. He had been a fool.

_We must keep moving, my pet,_ said the voice, _Cloudgazer is on our trail. What better way to get back at him then by bringing down the library, his home, from the inside?_

“Yes…” muttered Caliban, utterly lost in hatred. That hate seemed to fuel him, and he waded out of the tide which had risen around him. He shook himself dry, before he began to walk back towards the road, ready to continue the journey, his mental defenses shattered just a little more from the introduction of hatred into his mind.

_The book, my pet,_ said the voice, gently, _Don’t forget the book. We need it._

Caliban froze, and looked over at the book lying on the stones of the beach. He walked over, snatching it up and stowing it back into his pack. He then continued on his way, eager to see to the fall of Candlekeep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showdown on the Way of the Lion!

Everything was quiet as Vanya sat among the tall grass, allowing his horse to graze as he rested. It was too quiet. The dragonborn had wandered off somewhere to speak, or fuck, or whatever it was they would do with one another. He didn’t altogether care, although he had certainly noticed the eager looks that ran between them ever since they had shared drinks that first night around the campfire. His mind didn’t dwell on them long, instead looking ahead, to the fortress of Candlekeep which they would soon approach.

He had hoped the answer to his family’s curse might be solvable without publicly casting his family into the light, although now, that seemed impossible. The halfling was missing, and he didn’t have time to track her down, as this lizard monster was on the loose and murdering people. Besides, there was no guarantee that she would have had the power to help him. Invisibility and blasts of force were mere parlor tricks next to the insanity of the Greylash curse. He wrote off Rosalind Tossfeather in that moment and looked ahead. He was about to do a great service for a member in good standing at the library of Candlekeep. His quest has led him there, to the greatest repository of knowledge on the Sword Coast, and it was sure to pay out in dividends if he managed to find a way to lift the miserable condition of undeath from his bloodline.

The jingle of carelessly worn chainmail and shuffling feet knocking rocks about caused Vanya to turn, and he saw the two dragonborn approaching. Balthezar seemed to wear a wide smile as he laughed, in uncharacteristic good humor, considering the plight of this lizardfolk he had so often spoken of. Creon even seemed softer as well, somehow, watching Balthezar talk of this or that with a small smile brightening the corners of his mouth. Creon’s clothes seemed as wrinkled and rumpled as ever, but Balthezar was far less put-together than Vanya was used to seeing the fastidious, bookish fellow keep himself. It was clear what had happened.

“We ride,” he said, standing, and both dragonborn turned to look at the human. Balthezar’s smile faded as he was startled by the sudden appearance of the lithe man, and both of his hands clutched onto Creon’s.

Creon himself didn’t flinch, and his smile faded as he gently pulled his hand away from Balthezar’s grip, “Fine. How far are we from Candlekeep, Cloudgazer?”

“Er…” he began, sighing to chase the fright away, “We’re hours from the Way of the Lion. It’s a cliffside road which hugs the coast and climbs its way up towards Candlekeep. If we keep on it, we should reach the front gates this time tomorrow.

“Then we ride,” insisted Vanya, “To Candlekeep.”

“With all due respect, Vanya, we aren’t going to Candlekeep. We’re searching for Caliban. It would be best if he never arrive at all.”

Vanya was silent at this, and he said nothing as he climbed aboard his horse. Balthezar didn’t push the issue, but he did cast a slightly worried glance in Creon’s direction. Creon caught the look, but he shrugged his shoulders, and simply climbed aboard his own steed. Once all three were astride their horses, they continued on their way.

It took merely three hours for them to arrive at the Way of the Lion, as darkness was beginning to fall and the ocean air erupted red in the sunset. As Balthezar had described, it was a cliffside road, wide enough for a cart to ride up at least, but not much wider than that in places. Above, a jagged peak rose up suddenly, making Creon and Vanya nervous, wary as they were about attacks from above, and below, Balthezar remembered the sight of the sharp rocks peeking beneath the waves at low tide which dotted the crashing Sea of Swords below.

They were close, less than a day away. They would have to set up camp in an outpost Balthezar knew of halfway up the Way of the Lion unless they wanted to ride through the night. Still, he knew it wasn’t their goal to make it there. It was to stop Caliban.

With that in mind, Balthezar touched the icon at his neck and concentrated. He prayed for the guidance of Deneir, hoping that being this close to Candlekeep, which is a holy place to such a God of knowledge, would help hone his senses to better locate the lost Lizardfolk.

He heard music then, and he smiled. It had been a long time since he had simply heard a piece of the song at the center of all things which Deneir claimed dominion over. He thought as he grew stronger he would hear it more, but it seemed that the opposite was true. As his power grew, he seemed to need less and less guidance from his patron God. Even so, he was happy to hear the song now, and he straightened his posture on the horse and, feeling his senses casting themselves beyond the meager range of his own eyes and ears, he raised a hand, letting the inspiration of his God point the way.

His eyes shot open, and he felt him. The reassuring bulk, the green scales and orange belly, the long tail which whipped when he was excited. He saw it dragging now and saw the dull sheen of filth upon those splendid scales, and the peek of bone beneath his muscle mass. The creature hardly seemed to be Caliban at all, so wasted away by the exertions of his forced march, but Balthezar knew, instinctively, that it was him.

“He’s ahead…” cried Balthezar, “Just ahead, within… a thousand feet of us, at least. If we ride, we can overtake him.”

Vanya was already drawing his whip as he began to spur his horse on, riding forward. Balthezar’s eyes went wide.

“Please! Don’t hurt him! He doesn’t know what he’s doing!” he cried, as he too spurred his own horse forward. Creon took up the rear of the formation, his own sword out of its sheath as he held on to the reins with his numb right hand.

\--

It took a mere twenty minutes of hard riding for the three horses to make it to where Balthezar had sensed the lizardfolk’s presence. Off in the distance, the three riders could see the towering spires of the fortress at the center of Candlekeep peeking over the cliffside, and the sight filled Balthezar with a sudden, invasive nostalgia. It had been years since he had left, with his only order being to grow and gather knowledge and return when he felt he was ready. He didn’t feel ready. He couldn’t return now, not when he had let Caliban fall once again into peril.

Vanya and Creon’s sharp eyes ignored the sight of the looming fortress off in the distance. Vanya slowed his horses gait and looked around wildly, eyes narrow and searching, while Creon immediately pulled ahead, before stopping and leaping off of his own horse, more comfortable fighting on the ground. Balthezar, realizing what was going on, stayed on his own horse and reached up to rest a hand on the holy symbol around his neck, ready for anything.

There was an instant of silence from the three as they looked around. The area was an unassuming cliffside road, barely wide enough for their three horses to ride up, and the bend in the road began to turn towards Candlekeep in the distance. The final rest area before the climb up to the walls of the fortress would be nearby, Balthezar knew. Before they could realize what was going on, the whip in Vanya’s hand began to emit a high pitched screech and vibrated with power. Vanya stared at it, and then unfurled it, readying himself for the enemy he knew was there.

“He’s here,” said Vanya, “Do you sense him?”

Balthezar breathed in, before he closed his own eyes and once again expanded his senses. The lizardfolk was nearby. Very close, in fact. He opened his eyes once again and turned towards the supernatural guidance he had received, realizing that it pointed him towards the cliffside he and his horse had stopped by. He saw no one there and furrowed his brow.

“He’s… he’s here. By the cliff?” Balthezar said, before he realized what he was saying, and grabbed hold of the horse’s reins desperately, trying to guide the creature away from the edge, “Over here!”

However, it was too late. As Balthezar realized the danger he was in, he heard the screech of the lizard unleashing a sudden rage, and the dragonborn saw the muscular creature scramble up from where he was hidden just under the lip of the cliffside. Startled, Balthezar had barely any time at all to whisper an incantation before the lizard grabbed hold of two of the horse’s strong legs, pulling them hard. In surprise, the horse screamed and tried to buck, kicking out at the lizardfolk to break his strong grip, but Caliban seemed lost in his rage, barely noticing as he pulled the horse off of its hooves and, with a sharp jerk, forced the horse off the edge of the cliff with Balthezar still riding him.

The green dragonborn began to scream as he realized his horse was scrabbling on the cliffside, two of his legs hanging over the edge. Eventually, the horse’s hooves could no longer find purchase, and Balthezar knew they would fall if he did nothing. Acting quickly, Balthezar attempted to leap from the horse before it fell. The creature dropped, screeching down onto the rocks below, before falling silent as the waves swallowed it up. Balthezar, however, had barely managed to find purchase by grabbing the edge of the rocky ledge.

“Cloudgazer!” cried Creon, but Vanya was the first to act.

Well aware of the danger, Vanya’s own horse turned and rode towards Caliban. The bullwhip lashed out twice, but Caliban, it seemed, was too quick for that. He had faced this human before, and he was ready for it. He ducked low, scrambling along the ground like a feral crocodile, and Vanya’s strikes both missed.

“Creon, kill the lizard!” Vanya ordered.

Creon, however, was torn. Balthezar was hanging from the cliff. The librarian might have been able to hold on, and it was truly more important to subdue the creature and claim the orb, but at the same time, memories of the past day came flooding into the silver dragonborn’s head. Balthezar was more important in that moment. If he lost Balthezar Cloudgazer, he wasn’t sure what he would do. Against his better judgement, he rushed towards the cliffside, dropping his sword to the ground, and reached down to grab Balthezar by the wrist.

“Creon!” Vanya screamed as Caliban suddenly struck.

To the paladin’s surprise, the beast’s jaws opened, and from within, a sudden gout of fire began to issue forth. Vanya thought for a moment the creature had taken on some aspect of a dragon and was about to bathe him in fire, but the creature instead lunged ahead and, with his teeth wreathed in flame, he bit down not on Vanya, but on Vanya’s horse. The creature’s neck was pierced by the lizardfolk’s strong jaws, whinnying in fright. With rip, and a gurgle, the horse was killed instantly, its throat torn out by the lizardfolk, and Vanya felt himself falling. He tried to right himself and leap off before the horse could fall, but he lost his footing, rolling to the ground as the horse fell, dead, to the rocks.

Burning horseflesh and blood invaded Vanya’s nostrils as he lay on his back. He thanked Tyr the horse had not fallen on him and pinned him down, but as he attempted to stand, he found a sudden weight on him. The lizardfolk had leaped on top of him, red foam dripping from his wide jaws, and grabbed hold of his arms with a crushing grip.

Meanwhile, Creon pulled. Balthezar, eyes wide with fright, held on to the dragonborn’s arm with as strong a grip as he could manage. With a nearly unearthly strength, the silver pulled hard, and without much effort at all, Balthezar found himself hoisted up onto the cliffside. Creon, satisfied that Balthezar was out of danger, picked his longsword back up and turned to face the battle, his eyes wide as Vanya was pinned down by the creature with blood dripping from its jaws.

“Cloudgazer, if you got something, now’s the time!” cried Creon as he approached the lizard.

Dazed, and still with his stomach churning from his close call, Balthezar sat on his hands and knees and looked up at the fight. The sight of Caliban, looking so feral, malnourished, and wild caused a pang of pain to lance through him, but he knew he couldn’t freeze now. Caliban’s life was on the line.

He stood tall and strong then and decided the only way to end this would be to make Caliban stop. He breathed in slowly, gathering energy within him, and then raised a hand to cast a spell. Power arced through the air as Balthezar spoke words of power.

“Caliban! Stop this!” he cried with a final wave of his hand, and glowing, radiant shackles appeared around the lizardfolk’s wrists and ankles. The lizard looked down at the shackles for a moment, trying to resist them with his immense strength, but found he could not. It was not a force that strength alone could stand against. Suddenly, from the shackles, Caliban was hoisted off of the paladin. He tried one last time to bite down, but one final loop of radiant energy closed around his snout, muzzling him. He was held, then, motionless and struggling against these bonds.

Vanya and Creon both breathed a sigh of relief as the magic took. Vanya stood, and turned to Balthezar, demanding, “How long will that hold?”

“Not long,” said Balthezar, arm still held up as he concentrated on the spell, “The orb. It will be over if you take the orb from him!”

Vanya nodded his head then and soon began to rifle through Caliban’s pack, looking for the orb. Creon, for his part, approached and held up his sword, readying an attack if the creature somehow broke the spell.

Caliban, eyes wide and body struggling, stared directly at Balthezar as he attempted to pull himself free. Balthezar flinched back from the sudden, hateful gaze he felt from the lizardfolk in that moment as their eyes met. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and Balthezar felt uneasy as he realized that the lizard’s rage was not subsiding. In fact, it seemed to intensify as he locked eyes with the green dragonborn. The sheer hate which flowed from the lizard to the dragonborn was staggering, and Balthezar couldn’t speak.

_My pet, you cannot fall here._

Caliban, his mind honed by his hatred as he stared into Balthezar’s eyes, immediately submitted to the voice. Was there a way he could be freed from the cleric’s spell?

_Leave that to me, my sweet,_ the voice said, _just do what you do best._

All of a sudden, as Vanya was about to reach into the lizard’s coinpurse, the fire within the lizard’s belly seemed to intensify. It spread across his body, entering his struggling limbs, and coalescing where the shackles met his wrists. As if he was immersed in flame for a split second, Caliban felt the heat spread across the whole of his being, and the shackles immediately shattered into light. Balthezar, surprised, gasped as his concentration was forcibly broken. That was impossible!

Suddenly, unexpectedly free, Caliban’s jaws, wreathed once again in fire, attempted to close around Vanya’s neck to end the skinny human once and for all. However, Creon was ready. He struck out, leaving a long gash across the lizardfolk’s face, dragging the tip across one of Caliban’s eyes, immediately causing a gout of blood to spurt forth. The lizard flinched back, but Creon wasn’t done. Taking the opportunity, Creon laid a kick into the lizard’s stomach, pushing him backwards, towards the edge of the cliff and away from Vanya, before he held his sword up as a silent warning to the lizard.

“Caliban! Stop!” Balthezar cried again, before he began to run forward, knowing he had to put a stop to this.

“Don’t get close to him, Cloudgazer. He’s not the Caliban you know,” said Creon.

“There’s something holding on to him. I may be able to remove it! Please, I have to try. I need to be able to touch him.”

Creon’s better judgement was screaming at him not to allow this. The snarling, hunched creature seemed ready to bolt at any time, but Vanya was quickly circling around to cut off any escape. Caliban was cornered, his back to the cliffside and surrounded by the three idols of his newfound hatred. Balthezar was the first to approach, reaching into a pouch at his side and withdrawing a small bag of shining diamond dust. Restorative magic had its cost, and Balthezar was prepared to pay it for his friend.

Creon and Vanya watched this play out as the green dragonborn approached, preparing to try to restore his friend to sanity. However, Creon could see that the lizard was preparing something. His heels were coiled, and he seemed ready to leap at the cleric as soon as he was close enough.

Caliban’s eyes betrayed him, ultimately. There was a single flicker of his one uninjured eye as it moved from the approaching cleric to swivel around behind him, before he bared his teeth. Creon’s eyes went wide as he realized what was going on. The orb didn’t care about the body it inhabited. It was going to fling itself off the cliff, and it intended to take Balthezar with him!

“Cloudgazer! Stop!” Creon cried, rushing forward and jerking the green dragonborn’s shoulder backwards. In the same instant, Caliban leaped forward, attempting to encircle his prey with his arms. Jerked out of the way, Creon was the nearest victim. He found the lizardfolk’s arms around his chest, and his teeth in his shoulder. The silver dragonborn screamed, anger in his eyes as he attempted to struggle out of the lizardfolk’s grip.

“Creon!” cried Balthezar, eyes wide, “Caliban! No!”

A look passed between Creon and Balthezar then as Caliban, single-minded in his desperation to escape and take one of his pursuers with him, pulled backwards and fell from the cliffside. Balthezar screamed as Creon and Caliban disappeared off the side of the Way of the Lion, the silver flailing his one free arm, numb as it was.

Balthezar rushed forward falling to his knees by the edge of the cliff, and he saw that a few feet down, Creon had managed to grab a rock jutting from the cliff face. His teeth were clenched and his eyes narrowed from pain, but still he held firm. Balthezar realized with horror that he held on with his right and knew the numb hand wouldn’t have the ability to hold him for long, especially with the bulk of the lizardfolk hanging off of him.

“Hold on, Creon!” cried Balthezar, falling to his stomach and reaching as far as he could, trying to grab hold of Creon as Creon had done for him. However, he wasn’t close enough, and the best he could do was brush the tips of his fingers across the silver dragonborn’s knuckles.

Tears began to stream from Balthezar’s eyes as he thought quickly for what to do. He closed his eyes, praying for something, anything, that could help Creon and Caliban to survive, and a warmth passed through his fingers and into the other dragonborn’s hand. Creon could not feel the magic, but Balthezar was certain that it had taken.

“Vanya!” he screamed, “Your whip! Throw him your whip!”

Vanya did not have to be told twice, he rushed forward and unfurled his whip, allowing the tip to dangle off of the cliff for Creon to grab hold of. Creon saw it, breathing hard at the exertion in his numb hand, and, with his other arm still restrained by the lizardfolk, he attempted to let go of the cliffside and in the same breath grab hold of the whip, knowing it was his last chance.

However, Caliban was ready. As the silver tried to swing himself over to catch the whip, the lizardfolk sank his teeth into the dragonborn’s neck once again. Creon screamed out, his hand flinching just long enough to delay his maneuver. He grasped out, unsure if his numb hand had touched the length of coiled leather, until he felt himself go into freefall. His eyes went wide as he looked past the cliff and up towards Balthezar, who was screaming their names, reaching down to try as best he could to reach the falling dragonborn and lizardfolk. Soon, to Balthezar’s horror, the two figures disappeared beneath the crashing waves, surely dashed upon the sharp rocks at the bottom of the Way of the Lion.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the battle, recovery must begin, but some wounds can't heal so easily.

“What exactly is wrong with getting married, my dear?” asked Ms. Shortbread as she sat in the carriage she had hired for the journey to candlekeep. Hotspur sat across from her, and she scowled at the old woman’s question.

“You wouldn’t ask that if you knew what I’ve gone through, Ms. Shortbread,” she muttered, “Honestly, these betrothals are nothing to be proud of. They never go anywhere, and they’re always a humiliating affair. This has certainly been the best of them, believe me, and I haven’t even met the bastard yet.”

“But if you managed to meet mister Right, what would you think then?” asked Ms. Shortbread, “Or even Miss Right? I don’t know if you have a preference. Is that a possibility?”

Hotspur rolled her eyes, “Look, it’s none of your business, honestly. I don’t intend to get married, even if my mother and some unlucky noble family did agree.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know! I just don’t want to!” cried Hotspur, snarling at the old woman.

“Don’t you have a responsibility to your family? You are an only child after all, and a woman of nobility.”

“Some nobility. An upjumped greenskin bastard in the eyes of the rest of Waterdhavian society. Getting foisted off on the son of some Balduran Patriar to get me out of town is probably the best-case scenario for Mother and Father at this point.”

“Oh, that’s not true. You’re their child. I’m sure they just want what’s best for you,” insisted Ms. Shortbread before she raised her hand to rest on her cheek, “It reminds me when I was your age.”

“You were never my age, round ears,” muttered Hotspur, narrowing her eyes, “Let me guess. Society maven, not noble but noble-adjacent, maybe the new money daughter of some merchant or other. You were young and beautiful, but you had spunk, and thought it would never happen to you until you met Howard, or Homer, Chester… Clarence… Some old person name like that, right? And he gave you the best years of your life and then passed on gracefully, leaving you alone. Well that’s not what I had! My mother, father and I were treated like absolute garbage our entire lives by everyone in the world who cared about society and nobility, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t give a rat’s ass about when you were my age. Understand?”

Ms. Shortbread was silent at this, the faint smile never leaving her face, although she looked away a moment later, thinking. She gave a little laugh and shrugged her shoulders.

“I never married, Hotspur.”

“Okay, big whoop. So, get off my dick about it.”

“I just think you misunderstand me,” she continued, “My concern isn’t for you getting married. My concern is making sure that you have a future.”

“Do I need a man to have a future?”

“No, I suppose not. I got on very well without one,” she answered with a self-satisfied nod, “But I suppose I’m just an old meddler. I like seeing people find one another. I’ve taken an interest in your case because I think you have potential, and I mean to see you fill it.”

“My… case?” Hotspur said, “What the hell does that mean?”

Ms. Shortbread gave a small laugh, before she answered, “Your mother contacted me, you know, before you left.”

“You’re here because my mother called you!?” Screamed Hotspur, leaning back and running her hands through her hair, mussing up the coiffure, “Damn you, Ms. Shortbread!”

“She’s concerned for you,” said Ms. Shortbread, “She contacted me to go to Baldur’s Gate before you and scout out young Vanya. She had heard the rumors, after all, and wanted to make sure you weren’t in danger. Mrs. Greylash was happy to hire me to find her grandson once it was clear that he had gone missing.”

“So, you’re taking money from my mother to keep an eye on me and make sure I marry Vanya, is that it?”

“No! I’m taking money from your mother to keep an eye on you and make sure Vanya is worthy of you.”

“Worthy…?”

“Your mother thinks the world of you, Hotspur, you must know that. She knows you don’t fit into her usual social circles, and she wants you to find your place in the world, so you can take the Eagleshield family inheritance with pride. Your father feels the same way.”

“My… father…”

“He offered to come with me, you know, to break the lad over his knee if he turned out to be a scoundrel, but I work best with subtlety.”

Hotspur was silent for a moment. The revelation that his parents not only knew Ms. Shortbread, but had sent her on to help was galling to her, and she couldn’t help but clench her teeth and cross her arms hard across her chest.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, “You knew it would make me angry. You’re better at keeping secrets than this.”

“It’s because I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us,” said Ms. Shortbread, “Considering all of this excitement with the cult and Caliban’s disappearance, if there could be anything that could tear our partnership apart, better to get it out into the open now before it comes out on its own at a more inconvenient time.”

Hotspur was quiet as she listened to this explanation, before she snorted, and answered, “So what now? You think Vanya’s even got a chance with me?”

“I’m not sure,” said Ms. Shortbread, “He’s family focused, that much is clear.”

“Oh sure. Keeping your sister’s undead corpse in the basement. Family-first.”

“But at the same time, the Greylashes are a dangerous family to be involved with.”

“Because of the necromancy?”

Ms. Shortbread shook her head, “No. Not exactly.”

Hotspur stared at the old woman’s infuriating little smile, before she tilted her head with a snarl and said, “You said no secrets, right?”

“Yes?”

“So,” began Hotspur, leaning forward, “What do you have on Sallah Greylash? Why was she scared of you?”

Ms. Shortbread frowned at this and seemed as if she might refuse to answer, but she knew that would only cause Hotspur to throw her own words in her face. She decided it was better to be forthright and damn the consequences.

“The necromancy is only the beginning,” said Ms. Shortbread, “The Greylashes have a long, bloody history. Evil seems to be in their blood. Vanya becoming a paladin was a shock, but his darker methods come as no surprise.”

“Bloody history, huh?”

“In the early days of Balduran history, they distinguished themselves as the torturers and prison wardens of Baldur’s Gate. It was always a dark town, and that darkness stemmed from the very top and permeated every level of society. They innovated ways to cause great pain and get people to admit all sorts of things they had done, and some they hadn’t.”

“Yeesh.”

“But, as is the way with people who enjoy causing pain, power became their main concern. As a patriar family, they had a great deal of leeway with the Dukes, but they wanted more, and I think we’ve seen the kinds of dark bargains that were struck to secure their current position. They have money and political pull, and no one is any the wiser… except for me.”

“Why you? Because you know about the skeletons in their closet?”

“There’s that. There’s also the racketeering they are involved in, the smuggling operations their money comes from, and the ties they still have to the red wizards of Thay. Not to mention all the political disappearances and mysterious murders that tend to come up whenever someone gets too close to any hint of the family’s dark secrets.”

“And yet Sallah hired you?”

“It took some convincing, but she knew how good I am at finding things out and killing me had not worked out for them. She needs her grandson brought back alive, and enemy of the family or not, I’m the best resource they have. I suspect he is in a similar situation to yourself, Hotspur. He’s the last heir to the family, and yet he doesn’t quite fit in with the rest.”

Hotspur fell silent at this, her lips pursing together as she looked away from Ms. Shortbread. She furrowed her brows, thinking of Vanya, and wondering what exactly he would do.

“He can’t inherit anything. He’s taken a paladin’s oath,” she said, “One that probably wouldn’t agree with the affairs of the Greylash family. There are consequences for breaking an oath like that.”

“I’m aware. Perhaps I’m trying to find a workable solution for him as well as one for you. If he could join another family, perhaps he might find the freedom he so needs.”

“So you’re not grooming him for me, you’re grooming me for him?”

“I didn’t say that!” said Ms. Shortbread, with a smile, “I’m grooming you both for each other! Very different. Much more equal all around.”

Hotspur’s face fell back into a scowl as she heard this, and she looked away, rolling her eyes. Ms. Shortbread couldn’t help but laugh as she leaned back herself, making herself comfortable in the silence she knew was coming for the remainder of the long carriage ride to Candlekeep.

\--

Creon’s ears were ringing and his lungs seemed to burn as he came to consciousness. The roaring whisper of water rushing by far away, charging and retreating from the shore, was the first thing he noticed. The second thing he noticed was the ache throughout his body as he lay on his stomach, feeling battered and bruised, but alive against all odds.

Still drowsy despite his sleep, he opened his eyes, feeling them stick closed for a moment. He saw the ocean from where he was laid down on a rough, pebbly beach. Groaning from the pain in his body, he moved his arms slowly, pushing them under himself to try to sit up. When the muscles in his arms complained too harshly, he laid himself back down flat and groaned once again. He moved his eyes to take in his own form then. He was wearing no clothes and seemed dry. If he didn’t have ice in his blood from his draconic heritage, he was sure he would have been uncomfortably cold.

Just then, he heard footsteps. Jostling rocks signaled the arrival of someone, and he struggled to turn his head to look towards the visitor. He felt vulnerable with nothing on, and he curled his hands into fists, knowing it would hardly be enough.

His eyes widened as he looked into the face of Caliban, standing tall, blood dripping from his jaws. Some beast was draped over his shoulder – a mauled creature with mousy brown fur and hooves, but with head and several legs missing. Caliban’s one remaining eye turned towards Creon and saw that the dragonborn was awake, and the two of them were perfectly still, staring at one another, unsure of what the other would do.

“You… gonna kill me?” asked Creon, his voice ragged.

“No,” said Caliban, simply, before he dropped the meat on the beach and walked over to a stack of dry driftwood and grasses he had gathered. He silently began building a fire.

Creon stared for another moment, taking in as much information as he could. It was early morning, judging from the chill in the air. The lizard had not attacked him yet. Also, the lizard had undressed him. Once again, feeling at least some of his strength returning, Creon forced himself to sit up. He managed to get his knees under his body, and soon sat, looking down at himself. His scales were a mess. Barely healed wounds crisscrossed his chest, arms, and legs, and he clenched his jaw, remembering the sight of the sharp rocks and crashing waves below the way of the lion. How was he alive? He should have been killed. He looked then at Caliban and wondered the same thing. Caliban was, if anything, even worse from the emaciated look from his forced march.

As he wondered this, Caliban finished building the fire and withdrew a carved, bone knife from the corpse and began to roughly butcher the creature. He skewered slices of the meat on long sticks he had found elsewhere. Creon watched with fascination as the creature worked, obviously an experienced survivalist.

“Where are my clothes?” asked Creon, feeling his voice regaining its strength.

“Wet,” said Caliban, before he jerked his head to one side, where the old uniform, looking even more ratty and ripped than usual, was laid out on the beach. “Would have made you sick to keep on.”

“Well, much obliged,” said Creon, “Did you save me?”

Caliban nodded.

“How are we alive? We should have been killed.”

“Cloudgazer’s magic saved you. The orb’s magic saved me.”

“Cloudgazer?” Creon asked, his eyes widening. He remembered then when Balthezar was reaching down to try to grab him. Did he managed to get off a spell before he had fallen? Exposed and still chilly, Creon forced himself to crawl closer to the fire, not caring that Caliban saw him in the buff, and crossed his arms. “What about the orb? How come you ain’t killing me?”

Caliban paused for a moment, before he considered his answer. He seemed as if he was listening for someone, and as he did, he stuck one of the skewered pieces of meat into the fire and began to cook it.

“The orb is gone.”

“Gone? You lost it?”

“During the fight. It must have fallen from me. I do not hear the voice anymore,” said Caliban, “But the orb warded me against death just as Cloudgazer did for you. I swam us back to shore.”

Creon stared at Caliban, before he breathed out harshly. He shrugged his shoulders and reached up to rub the ache out of one of them.

“Good riddance. Hope it rots at the bottom of the sea.”

“Yes,” agreed Caliban, pulling the skewered meat from the fire. It was barely cooked, but to Caliban’s eyes it seemed fine. He offered it to Creon. “Eat. You are weak.”

“You look like you’re starving.”

“I will have the rest.”

Creon narrowed his eyes but shrugged his shoulders and took the skewered meat. It would do. As he tucked into his own meal, he watched as Caliban turned and sank his own teeth into the raw meat of the beast, tearing strips from it with his teeth and chewing them harshly. Creon blinked his eyes as he watched the creature take his meal, wondering what exactly Balthezar had seen in this wild animal. He had to admit that it impressed him that the sweet-natured librarian had tastes that ran on the wild side.

Eventually, Caliban sat back on his haunches and seemed satisfied, not bothering to wipe the blood from his jaws. Creon, hungry himself and knowing he had to eat to heal, finished his own meal in silence. The two scaled creatures sat across from one another then, staring.

“What is the orb?” asked Creon, eventually, knowing that Caliban had information that might have been useful.

“It is… bad,” said Caliban, slowly. He thought for a long time, gathering his thoughts, before he went on, “It made me do things… feel things… I hurt people. I hurt Cloudgazer.”

“It set your mouth on fire, too.”

“It burns you inside, when you do not do what it wants. When you do what it wants it gives you gifts of magic. It is angry and mean. It is bad.”

“And now it’s gone?” asked Creon, narrowing his eyes, “You don’t hear it anymore?”

Caliban shook his head. Creon watched the creature as he did, his suspicious nature trying to intuit some lie in his bearing. The dispassionate expression on the lizardfolk’s face was hard to read, but Creon was fairly sure he was being sincere.

Creon sighed, then, dropping the stick on the ground once he had finished chewing the last of his meat. He said, “Sorry about the eye.”

“It is fine. You protected Cloudgazer.”

“He missed you. I’m glad you’re okay for his sake at least.”

“Cloudgazer…”

As he said the word, Creon was sure he saw a palpable change come over the lizardfolk’s bearing. His face did not change, but his posture seemed to hunch lower. Creon wondered if it was shame or embarrassment but doubted it. From what he understood of these people, they didn’t have emotions in the same way most humanoids did.

“I saw you together,” Caliban finally said, “The orb showed me. It made me hate you. It made me hate Cloudgazer.”

“Saw… us?” Creon muttered, realizing what that meant. His silver scales blushed slightly, and he looked away. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

Caliban stared hard at Creon then, and it felt as if he was trying to read the dragonborn. Eventually he snorted, and then shook his head.

“Not yet,” said Caliban, “I know this lingering hate I feel is not my own.”

“Good.”

“Still. I do not know you. You are a stranger to me. You are a stranger to Cloudgazer.”

“I think him and me are well past ‘strangers’ at this point, Caliban.”

“Do not make fun,” Caliban snapped, with a growl to his tone, “Cloudgazer is good. I am devoted to Cloudgazer. If you hurt Cloudgazer then you are meat in my jaws.”

“What makes you think I want to hurt him?”

“I do not know you. You attacked us in the tavern.”

“I thought you were cultists. I know better now.”

“I know also… you are hurt.”

“Falling off a cliff’ll do that.”

Caliban shook his head. “No. Not outside. You are hurt inside. Cloudgazer speaks with you like he speaks with other people he helps. You have trouble inside. I do not know what it is, but trouble can make softskins do things which make no sense.”

“You think I’ll hurt Cloudgazer because of my issues?”

“If you do, then you are…”

“Yeah, yeah, meat in your jaws, I get it,” said Creon, looking down into the fire, he thought for a moment, before he looked back up into Caliban’s face, “You really do love him don’t you?”

“I do not. I know he is good. Of all of us, he must live and be protected.”

“Sounds like love to me.”

“It is better than love,” explained Caliban with some finality, “Love is full of ‘maybe’ and ‘if.’ Knowing is better. I know Cloudgazer will not be happy with me forever, and I will need other things, but I also know… that only someone worthy will make Cloudgazer happy.”

“A little overprotective, ain’t you?”

“Yes. I protect Cloudgazer,” said Caliban, nodding vigorously, not understanding the sarcasm in Creon’s words, “You understand. You are broken inside. You must be fixed before you are good for Cloudgazer.”

Creon paused, bristling at this judgement of his tryst with Balthezar. He didn’t have anything serious in mind when he and the green dragonborn spent time together. The attraction was there, certainly, and it was clear that it was mutual, but on one level Caliban was right. Creon was a mess. The lizardfolk, unclouded by attraction or emotion, saw it immediately. Creon thought of Balthezar Cloudgazer, and how sweet-natured and eager to please he was. He had none of the cultural baggage he had come to associate with other dragonborn of Djerad Thymar and had no concept of what was expected of him in service of clan and family. He was jealous of that, and he wondered faintly if that jealousy had served to fuel this attraction. At the same time, at the back of his mind, he knew if he went through with his mission and killed the Tyrantborn, that would be the end. Returning to Tymanther in triumph meant buying back into the expectations and rules that he had left behind. He would have military obligations. His father would expect children to continue the Creon clan. None of that would be possible if he decided to pursue someone like Balthezar.

“You have grown quiet,” said Caliban, “Is it because you are a quiet person, or is it because you are thinking?”

“Little of both,” muttered Creon, “Just… you should know, I don’t want to hurt Cloudgazer either.”

“Good.”

“And what I got going on, it’s… it’s bigger than me.”

“I do not know what you have going on.”

Creon shrugged, and said, “Daddy issues, I guess.”

Caliban’s head began to nod vigorously at this, and Creon realized that the lizardfolk seemed excited.

“That is common,” he said, “I also have these ‘daddy issues.’”

“You what?” Creon demanded, confusion making him frown.

“I murdered my father in a duel for hunting rights,” explained Caliban.

“Oh shit,” muttered Creon, before he crossed his arms and shot the lizardfolk a look of incredulity, “Remind me which one of us is more dangerous to Cloudgazer again?”

“Perhaps Cloudgazer likes people who have trouble related to their fathers,” said Caliban, “It is maybe because Cloudgazer does not have parents of his own. You are lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Yes. Cloudgazer likes you. I do not see why, but you have impressed him. I will protect you until we see Cloudgazer again. It is the same as protecting Cloudgazer. He will be sad if you die.”

Creon was silent at this once again, before he breathed in deeply and stood, unsteadily, before walking over to his clothes. They were still slightly damp, but certainly dry enough to wear. The fabric itself was worse off, ruined as they were by the fall. He would need new clothes soon. Still, he had to use what he had, and so he pulled on the trousers and jacket and went back to sit by the fire once again. He paused, then, a thought forming in his head.

“So you… killed your father,” he said.

“Yes. He was not good. Named me Runt. Denied me hunting ground which was mine.”

Creon blinked his eyes, knowing in his mind that the question he was about to ask would be useless, but still, he needed to air it out anyway.

“How do you get over something like that?”

“Did you kill your father too?”

“No,” said Creon with a sneer, “He just… didn’t want to be my father anymore. He tossed me aside when I wasn’t useful to him anymore.”

“It is the same as my father,” said Caliban, “When you return, you should kill him for wronging you in this way.”

“I’m not going to… are you crazy?”

“I am not. It was difficult at first but killing my father and being exiled was the best thing to happen to me,” said Caliban, “That is how I ‘got over’ it. It led to Waterdeep, and in Waterdeep I met Cloudgazer, and through Cloudgazer, I met Hotspur, and Tortoise, and Kobold. My new pack. It is a better pack than I had before.”

Creon stared at Caliban for a long moment, before he snorted, the corners of his mouth turning up in a humorless smile as he finally laughed, shaking his head. He was impressed all over again at Balthezar’s taste in men. He seemed drawn to tough guys who are all kinds of messed up inside. Creon knew in that moment that Caliban was, in some ways, a kindred spirit. Perhaps they couldn’t relate to one another directly, but they each knew the other instinctively, and they both, in their own ways, cared for Balthezar.

With one last sigh, Creon laid back down on the pebbly beach, knowing he needed proper sleep if he was going to be of any use at all. They needed to walk on to Candlekeep soon. Surely Balthezar and Vanya had gone on to the fortress. Creon felt the urge to see the green dragonborn again, and to tell him… what? ‘I love you’ didn’t feel right quite yet. Maybe ‘thank you’ would be enough?

“Good night, Caliban,” said Creon, closing his eyes, “When we’re ready, we should go on to Candlekeep. Cloudgazer will be there.”

Caliban nodded, “Then we will go there. Good night.”

With that, Caliban began to curl himself up like a dog, and soon fell asleep near the still-roaring fire. Creon was jealous of the lizard for being able to sleep so easily, but eventually, despite the rough ground and the ache in his body, he too managed to find some fitful sleep.

\--

With only a single horse between them, Balthezar and Vanya had to move slowly. Due to the dragonborn’s height and weight, they couldn’t effectively ride two to a horse without killing the poor creature, and so Vanya and Balthezar both continued the rest of the adventure on foot, consolidating Creon’s things with their own and lashing it all to the back of the horse.

In shock, Balthezar walked without a word, his only expression a thousand-yard stare as he walked along with Creon’s blanket draped over his shoulders against the chill as they climbed higher to reach the fortress of Candlekeep.

The fortress was still a half-day away when they arrived at the rest area – merely an alcove carved into the stone face of the Way of the Lion’s cliffside road to give travelers shelter from the elements. Within the alcove, Balthezar and Vanya both noticed a small shrine set up in one corner – not impressive by any means, and not even dedicated to a particular denomination, but by the holy icons of every good and benevolent God of the realm set out in apparent offering, the Cleric and Paladin both felt some scant relief as they exited the falling dusk and entered the cave. Balthezar cast a spell of light on his own holy symbol then, illuminating the cavern fully, and Vanya, bags under his eyes and a hunch to his posture, wasted no time in beginning to build a fire in the slight indent in the floor where countless travelers had built their own.

Vanya and Balthezar had said nothing to one another since Creon and Caliban had fallen into the sea. Balthezar had been inconsolable for an hour, babbling about nothing through hysterical sobs, until he managed to calm himself to a heavy, breathy whine, and finally, and perhaps most distressingly, to silence. Vanya had offered no words. He merely packed everything onto the horse and, gently, led the cleric on towards Candlekeep. They were too far along to turn back now. They needed to rest and resupply at Candlekeep, as well as ask them for help in recovering the bodies before they were lost forever to the waves.

Balthezar stood for some time, watching Vanya work, until there was a roaring fire in the pit. After that was finished, Vanya sat, warming his bones against the falling chill of dusk as well as the biting air blowing off the Sea of Swords. It was only then that he turned, looked at Balthezar and spoke.

“Sit,” he said, “You’re tired.”

“What?” the dragonborn said, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. It smelled of Creon, and he had been lost in it. “Oh. Uh. Alright.”

Slowly, he approached, realizing all of a sudden how tired he truly was after traveling on foot for hours. He sank to the floor near the fire, curling himself up with the blanket around his shoulders, and hugging his knees to his chest. He sat like that for another moment, before Vanya spoke again.

“We did all we could,” the human said, pulling his pack from his back and withdrawing a package of plain trail rations. He lifted a small block of hard bread to his mouth and bit off a chunk, before his jaw began to work to soften up the rough tack.

“Did we?” asked Balthezar, “Caliban… Caliban couldn’t have survived that fall. Creon might have… but… we didn’t see him. My magic can only go so far.”

“Magic?”

“I… I cast a spell on him before he…” said Balthezar, eyes widening, “… A spell of protection. A ward against death itself. It might have protected him from the rocks, but… if he drowned afterward then it was all for…”

“It’s not your fault,” Vanya said, brusquely.

“I shouldn’t have allowed Caliban to take the orb. I should have seen something was wrong earlier. I should have stayed away from Caliban. Creon… Creon may have died… protecting me.”

“You’re alive.”

“At the expense of two lives!” snapped Balthezar, “Two people I… I… Caliban is my very best friend. I couldn’t protect him. And Creon…”

“Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” screamed Balthezar, turning towards Vanya, “You were so focused on killing Caliban that… we couldn’t save him.”

“You were so focused on saving him that you got Creon killed.”

This struck Balthezar hard, and he retreated deeper into the blanket surrounding him. His eyes went wider, and he looked away from Vanya, clenching his jaw.

“You are cruel, aren’t you?”

“Facing reality is how you survive in this world,” said Vanya, “You know that. You have to move on.”

“Gosh you’re bad at this.”

Vanya’s eyes glanced over in Balthezar’s direction and found that the dragonborn was staring right back at him. The human shrugged one shoulder in a non-committal manner and took another bite of hard tack.

“Not my job.”

“To be humane? You’re a follower of a God of justice and good, aren’t you? You’re supposed to be…”

“My order is the right arm of Tyr. Tyr doesn’t do absolution. Tyr doesn’t do touchy-feely. Tyr smites evil.”

“That’s all well and good, but if good people die while you’re busy smiting evil…”

“You do good your way, dragonborn. I’ll do it in mine.”

“With all due respect, sir Paladin, but if we’re going to turn this into a debate about morality, I could find a great deal of fault with how you have conducted yourself from what I’ve seen.”

“You’re the one who was consorting with known members of the cult of the dragon.”

“A reformed member of the cult. You’re the ones who attacked us first, sight unseen and caused Caliban to run off in the first place.”

“He was corrupted before I got there, dragonborn. First I saw of him, I saw him chewing on you, and I gave chase.”

Balthezar fell silent at this, staring into the fire. His clenched jaw was causing him pain, and he could feel the bile rising up in the back of his throat. Green smoke seemed to pour from his nostrils as his anger grew, but soon, it seemed to subside. Grief grew in his chest, and he breathed out, only a small cloud of harmless gas escaping his draconic jaws.

“Mr. Vanya. I apologize. I shouldn’t have tried to blame you for…”

“Don’t. I don’t care.”

“But…”

“You’re in grief. I don’t know any pretty words to say, but I know you’ll do what you need to get better. If that includes taking swipes at me, that doesn’t matter.”

“… I see.”

Balthezar fell silent once again after this and considered what to do. He breathed in deeply, before he straightened his back and looked up at the ceiling of the cave.

“Mr. Vanya,” said Balthezar, “How did you get involved with Creon?”

Vanya paused, before he said, “I was on a job. He was useful to me, and I was useful to him. We happened to be working against the same group.”

“Were you searching for the orb as well? Or are you intending to kill Mr. Tiresius?”

“He isn’t my target. I didn’t know about the orb. I was looking for someone else. A halfling girl with connection to a celestial entity. I needed her power.”

“Oh. That warlock?” said Balthezar, remembering the halfling who had attacked them alongside Creon, “That’s an odd choice. A cleric would have had a far more direct connection to divine magic.”

Vanya said nothing, silently chewing on his tack. Balthezar got a feeling he knew why a cleric might not have been ideal.

“You’re… you’re involved in something underhanded, aren’t you?” he asked.

“You could say that.”

“There must be a good reason for it, I suppose.”

“You’re a trusting one. Weren’t you just questioning my morality a moment ago?”

“Er… Well…” said Balthezar, before he shook his head and, realizing that indulging in his curiosity was helping, he sighed and continued, “Can you tell me? Perhaps I can help.”

“It’s personal. I need to keep it quiet.”

“I’m based out of Waterdeep. Nobody in Baldur’s Gate knows me. Perhaps there’s something I could do.”

Vanya turned, then to stare at Balthezar with a piercing look. Balthezar flinched back but resisted the urge to look away. Eventually, the paladin blinked his eyes slowly, before he turned back to his rations and wrapped them back up, stowing them in his pack before he spoke.

“You know much about necromancy?”

“Necromancy…” Balthezar muttered, his face growing serious, “I know some about it. It isn’t my specific expertise, but I have a great deal of general knowledge of schools of magic. Why?”

“My family… is cursed. My ancestor’s sins have piled up over the past century, and I’m trying to set it right,” said Vanya, “I want to make sure my… ancestors can rest.”

Balthezar paused, blinking his eyes, before he reached up to touch his chin in thought. “Well… do you know the source of this, er, curse?”

Vanya shook his head.

“Well, then,” continued Balthezar, “I should be able to figure something out if I knew more specific details. There are many kinds of necromancers, after all. Wizards are the most common type of course, and even then, that covers Liches, Thayans, or even well-meaning but misguided benevolent mages. Worshipers of fell Gods may also turn to necromancy, or even those who hold pacts with extraplanar beings. That doesn’t even touch on naturally occurring undeath.”

“Natural…?”

“Oh yes, undeath can occur in nature. Ghosts, spirits, wraiths and the like. Such creatures can be created, but most simply manifest unprompted from the deaths of those with strong enough grudges,” explained Balthezar, before he asked, “Are there any further details you can tell me?”

Vanya thought for a moment, before he remembered a word that Balthezar had said. Something that sounded familiar.

“Thayans,” he said, “My family is tied with Thay. Diplomatic relations between the Red Wizards and Baldur’s Gate tended to happen through my family before they became persona non grata.”

“That must be it then! The country of Thay is notorious for institutionalized necromancy. It’s the cheapest labor available in that rough land. Your family must have fallen under the sway of a Thayan necromancer.”

“How do I stop it?”

“Well…” Balthezar began, before he looked away off into the middle distance and thought deeply, “I’m not sure, but I feel as if there must be an answer. I think I might be able to find something in the archives.”

“The archives…”

“At Candlekeep. We’re headed there now, after all, yes?” he said, “I… I wish that Creon and Caliban could be with me. I’ve always wanted my friends to visit the library with me, but…”

Balthezar pushed the thought out of his head. He was a long way away from any of his friends. This was what he was out here to do, after all, to learn how the world works, and to make it a better place. Perhaps helping this Vanya person was what he needed to do, now that he had lost so much.

“I have access to the archives. I’ll look for something while I’m there. It’s the least I can do. You did help me find Caliban after all.”

“I won’t turn down the help.”

Balthezar nodded, and chanced a smile, but it faded soon after. He shook his head, before he stood up.

“I think… I need to be alone for a while now. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Speaking to me. Listening. Giving me something to do to take my mind off of…” said Balthezar, before he forced himself to smile again, and nodded, walking away without looking over at Vanya, “Just… thank you.”

With that, the green dragonborn walked back to where they had left the horse and fished his bedroll out and began to set up his camp. Vanya watched the green dragonborn go, narrowing his eyes as he stared, until the dragonborn was lying down in his bedroll, tossing and turning in fitful rest.

Confident that the dragonborn was no longer paying attention, Vanya looked away and turned his gaze down towards a small coinpurse he kept clutched in the space between his armor and his tunic. He withdrew the little bag as silently as he could and undid the simple drawstring.

Within, he stared at the orb for a solid minute, blinking his eyes as he studied the crystal surface and the draconic pattern on the disc within. His quick hands had grabbed it unnoticed in the confusion of the fight, just before he had broken away from the hold Balthezar’s magic had over him. He knew that the cleric would demand the orb’s destruction if he knew it was there, and Vanya knew he should destroy it as well, but at the same time, Vanya could sense the power within the orb. If Balthezar failed, perhaps within this object was the power to save his sister’s soul. Perhaps this was what could set his family free from the curse.

“I know you can hear me,” said Vanya, quietly, “You intend to take me over like you did the lizardfolk, yes?”

The orb was silent but Vanya knew it was listening.

“Know this. I am of a stronger will than that creature before,” said Vanya, “I will not be so easily broken.”

With that, the paladin stuffed the orb back in the coinpurse and replaced it in under his armor before he began to set up his own bedroll. He could hear a faint rumble of a voice in his head, but he ignored it. The voices would begin soon, he knew, but he also knew he could resist them at least long enough to discover the secrets of the orb in Candlekeep. Soon, he fell asleep some ways away from Balthezar, his family’s whip laying over his chest where it could warn him of danger.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the heroes begin to converge on Candlekeep, and Balthezar is treated to a hometown hero's welcome!

It took some convincing for the merchant cart to allow the odd pair of the heavyset gold dragonborn and the tiny halfling in the green dress to accompany them on their expedition to Candlekeep. It was a cart of wine barrels from further north heading through Baldur’s Gate on their way to Candlekeep for inspection. The students, masters, scribes, and researchers all had one thing in common, it seemed, and that was a healthy appreciation for a good glass of wine. Rosalind was the one who brokered the deal with the winery, who appreciated the young girl’s knowledge and appreciation for good food and drink, but it was Tiresius who finally convinced the old married couple driving the cart. His serene air and spiritual manner impressed Mr. Bundle, himself a gods-fearing man, and he convinced his wife that these two adventurers with divine power would make the trip safer for them, especially since they appeared to be intending to travel with them free of charge. Thus, Tiresius and Rosalind managed to leave Baldur’s Gate without a fuss and began onward to Candlekeep.

The trip was slow and uneventful, but neither Rosalind nor Tiresius seemed to mind the pace. They both possessed a great deal of patience, and they both knew that with all the other adventurers converging on the fortress, they had little reason to worry. It would take the full five days of travel to arrive, and by day three, Tiresius and Rosalind had gotten to know one another quite well, laughing and joking like old friends as they sat in the back of the wine cart, their legs dangling off the back as they talked, passing a canvas sack of shelled nuts back and forth to snack on.

“So then what happened?” asked Rosalind, popping a walnut into her mouth as she stared up at the dragonborn with wide eyes.

“Well, I realized I was in a pickle. The cult more or less raised me after all. I thought they were grooming me to rule the world as the immortal goddess’s avatar on Toril, but… well, that wasn’t quite the truth. Turns out demigod blood is quite useful when trying to summon a God connected to that child.”

“Gosh!”

“So, I escaped. Blew the cultists to hell on my way out.”

“Were they all Yuan-ti?”

“There were some. I knew that big fella we killed at the Blade and Stars. There’s a Chultan splinter group of the cult that sees Dendar the Night Serpent as an aspect of Tiamat, and they were working close with them,” said Tiresius, his face gradually losing some of its good humor, “I wasn’t what you might call a good person at that point, of course. I was quite entrenched in the cult’s ways. It took a lot of time for me to buck their brainwashing.”

Rosalind’s face fell slightly as well, but she never lost her smile. She nodded her head, reaching over to pat the dragonborn on the leg as she said, “You’re good now, though, no matter how you were back then.”

“Still, my reputation precedes me,” the gold insisted, “I can’t help but feel guilty about some of the things I did, even after I left the cult. Even as recently as getting those nice boys into trouble with this Creon fellow.”

“Nice boys?”

With a renewed smile, Tiresius answered, “Balthezar and Caliban. If they’re there and still alive, I’ll introduce you. Balthezar is a sweetheart. Too skinny, I think, and a little bookish, but that’s just part of his charm, and he’s got a knack for reading people, even if he doesn’t realize it. Caliban on the other hand brooks no nonsense, and knows exactly what he wants, even if he ain’t the best at explaining.”

Rosalind’s own demeanor grew somber as she listened, knowing that the people Tiresius was describing were both in some unknown peril. She looked up into the dragonborn’s face and saw that he was staring off into the middle distance, real worry on his face as he seemed to think of those boys he had led into danger.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said after a moment, scooting herself closer to Tiresius and reaching up to touch his arm, “They’re both used to trouble, same as we are. They knew what they were getting into.”

“I suppose they did. Still…” Tiresius began, before he paused and finally, gave a little bashful laugh, “Y’know, I made a vow a while ago. I would never allow my bloodline to continue. There’s too much evil in it. I would be the last Tyrantborn.”

“Oh. No family? At all?”

The pained expression in Rosalind’s voice gave Tiresius pause, and he turned his face to look over at her. When he saw her wide, pitiful eyes falling on him, he had to laugh.

“Yes. No family,” he said, “Sorry if that offends you.”

“N-no! I mean… it’s just… Everybody needs a family, don’t they? I don’t know where I’d be if I didn’t have mother and father, and all my little siblings cheering me on back home.”

“I’m happy for you, sweetheart, but I’m afraid we’re not all so lucky,” Tiresius said, gently, “I never knew my real mother and father, and I do not give the cult any credit in raising me to be good or kind. Balthezar was an orphan as well. I suspect that most everyone else we’ve encountered has had some kind of problems with their families. It’s not just a matter of family. Poison goes in, poison comes out, is the problem. Doesn’t matter whether you’re alone. I’ve decided that it’s better if I be alone.”

“You aren’t poison, though! Whatever you did back then, that isn’t you anymore. I’m sure if you met the right person…”

Tiresius laughed long and hard, before reaching down to pat the girl on the shoulder, “Please, I’ve lived this long on my own. I can take care of myself. It’s other people I worry about.”

“People like Balthezar?”

Tiresius paused, and shrugged, “I guess so. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You talk about him a lot. He must have made an impression on you,” she said, before she smiled wider and exclaimed, “Maybe he can be your family!”

“I’m a bit old for him, I’m afraid. If he and I had met when I was younger…”

“That’s not what I mean. Family doesn’t have to mean… that,” she said, her cheeks blushing, “I mean… if you care about him, why not stick around him and try to make sure he’s protected.”

“I have a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“Are you sure? He seems to get into a lot of trouble.”

“That’s what he’s got Caliban for.”

“And Caliban got possessed by the spirit of a weird magic rock,” she snapped, “Families can… can be as big or as small as you please. I like big ones, but that’s just how I grew up. If a small family is all you can manage, and if you don’t want a family of your own, you can always just… pick one up out of the gutter, so to speak. There are all sorts of families around who need someone like you, Tiresius. Someone calm and steady, who knows what to say when things turn south. You’d make someone a good father, Tiresius Tyrantborn, and since you don’t want to have a kid yourself, well Balthezar’s an orphan ain’t he? Maybe he could use an extra someone there.”

“That’d be pretty presumptuous of me, I think, but I appreciate the perspective,” said Tiresius, his smile growing, causing his long whisker to sway a bit, “I’ll think about it.”

“And if you do, maybe I can be there too.”

“I thought you had a family back home, Rosalind.”

She laughed and shrugged, “Like I said, families can be as big or small as you please. I’ll just add you all to mine, make you all honorary Tossfeathers!”

Tiresius laughed as well, and nodded his head, “If it comes to that, certain…”

The gold dragonborn paused then, blinking his eyes, before he glanced out over the road. They were about halfway up the way of the lion, very nearly to the rest area that Mr. Bundle had told them they would be stopping for the night before pushing on to Candlekeep in the morning. As they rode on, Tiresius spotted something by the side of the road, a flash of something metallic in the sun, and he blinked his eyes. Rosalind tried to follow his gaze but couldn’t quite see what he was looking at.

“Mr. Bundle!” called Tiresius to their host, “Could you stop for a moment?”

“What’s wrong Brother Tiresius?” asked Mr. Bundle, in a reedy whistling voice.

“I think I see someone hurt.”

That was all Mr. Bundle needed to hear, and soon, the cart came to a stop. Curious, Rosalind hopped off first, making sure she had her book and wand in her hands, and she began to look around wildly for what Tiresius had seen. Tiresius, for his part, simply began to walk towards the side of the mountain road, where there was a small divot in the rock wall, large enough that a couple of people could take a rest or hide there. Sure enough, he saw a pair of figures in the darkness, one of them shining slightly in the sun.

“Excuse me,” said Tiresius, and both figures seemed to tense, one reaching for a weapon, “Sorry to bother you, but I had to know if you were who I thought you were.”

Rosalind soon formed up in front of Tiresius, knowing that the old man was far frailer than she was, but even so, she seemed nervous as she held up her wand, ready to launch a spell if whatever was in that cave was someone or something dangerous. Her fears were allayed when the two figures stood from their rest – both humanoid, and both clearly reptilian. One had a tail swaying back and forth which caused her some trepidation, and the other had drawn a sharpened piece of driftwood fashioned into a javelin. As they approached, they came, slowly, into the full sunlight, revealing the gleam to be the silvery sheen on a dragonborn’s scales.

With wide eyes, Creon emerged first from the cave, staring directly at Tiresius as he did. His grip on the haft of the javelin was so strong that the knuckles of his left hand were pale white from the strain. His teeth were clenched, and he had a wild gleam in his eyes. He didn’t even notice when little Rosalind cried out in recognition.

“Snout!” she screamed, “You’re alive!”

“Roz,” muttered Creon, “Get away from that man.”

“Snout…?”

Tiresius had to give a sad little laugh as he hung his head slightly, “You must be Creon Nastiar, I presume. The man who’s been looking all over for me. I had a feeling it might be you.”

“Wait,” said Rosalind, “You… you knew it was Snout and you still came over? Don’t you know Snout wants to…”

She trailed off as the realization came over her, she looked between the two dragonborn then, eyes wide as she saw the murderous, desperate expression on Creon’s face and the calm, sad one on Tiresius’. Soon, Caliban emerged into the sunlight as well, emaciated and thin still, but looking far healthier with a day’s worth of food in him.

“It is the gold,” said Caliban, “You have found us.”

“Stand back, Caliban,” insisted Creon.

“Put that away, son,” said Tiresius, as gently as he could, “I don’t want to hurt you. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“Hell of a thing for a cultist and a murderer to say.”

“I should know best, shouldn’t I? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Rosalind speaks very highly of you.”

“Roz. Why the hell are you…?”

“Snout!” cried Rosalind as she stood between the two dragonborn, holding up her arms, “Don’t kill Tiresius, please.”

“What…?”

“He’s my friend,” she said, as if it was as simple as that, “You’re my friend too. I can’t let my friends fight each other.”

“You don’t get it, Roz, he…!”

“You told me all about it, Snout. He’s out now. We all got bigger fish to fry, so if you want his head, you’ll have to take mine first, or my name’s not Rosalind Tossfeather.”

“Is your name Tossing Feather?” asked Caliban, slowly, faint confusion in his bearing.

“It is!” she said with a smile towards the lizardfolk, her demeanor softening immediately, “You must be Caliban. Sorry for setting you on fire before. Aren’t you supposed to be possessed?”

Caliban, unused to people apologizing for doing violence to him, fell silent and watched Creon, taking his cues from the silver. Creon’s weapon hand was trembling as he continued to stare at Tiresius, but he did not take a step forward. Balthezar’s words were ringing in his ears all of a sudden, and he was frozen.

“We won’t be able to move forward to Candlekeep unless you either kill me now, or put down your spear, son,” said Tiresius, “Which will it be?”

“Shut up!” cried Creon, waving a hand, the words of a spell on the tip of his tongue. However, he couldn’t bring himself to say it, and instead said, “Don’t call me son like you know me, Tyrantborn.”

“I prefer ‘Tiresius.’”

“I don’t care which you prefer. You’re a wanted man.”

“I know. But regretfully I can’t go with you willingly. As guilty as I am, I still have things out here I have to accomplish. Balthezar is still in trouble, isn’t he?”

Creon growled, “What do you care about Cloudgazer, Tyrantborn?”

“I care a great deal. What happened to the orb?”

Creon finally let his gaze break and he glanced over at Caliban. Given this silent permission to speak, Caliban began.

“Lost it,” he said, “When we fell into the sea. Whip man and Cloudgazer probably going on to Candlekeep.”

“Lost it? In my experience, things like that don’t stay lost for long.”

Caliban rumbled, closing his one uninjured eye. As he turned away from them and Tiresius and Rosalind got a good look at the other, covered with torn, blood-soaked cloth, Rosalind gasped.

“Your eye! What happened?”

“The Silver did this,” said Caliban, “I tried to kill Cloudgazer, and he protected Cloudgazer. It was right.”

“Gosh!” cried Rosalind, running past Creon and rushing to the side of the lizardfolk, “Bend down, let me see, maybe we can still save it!”

Caliban, glanced at Creon, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded, before the lizard bent down awkwardly to put his face near the halfling girl. Immediately, she put her hands on his face and began to whisper. As she did, the book at her side began to glow faintly as she seemed to draw power from it, and there was a sudden bright flash. Caliban flinched, but she followed his movement, and soon, a sudden, searing pain lit up Caliban’s face. He hissed and pulled away, and this time she let him. He bared his teeth at her but realized soon after with a blink of his eyes that the pain had left. He ripped the bandage from his face and could suddenly see out of both eyes, and they swiveled around, taking in different things as they spun.

“You are a healer.”

“Sorry about the pain,” she said, “A little side effect. My patron doesn’t really do kind and gentle. They’re more bright, searing lights and radiant fire. Still, I got some healing if you need.”

Caliban nodded his head, immediately understanding that this “Tossing Feather” was a friend. Creon, seeing that he was outnumbered, and feeling the fight leaving him as he thought of Balthezar’s words, lowered his javelin and breathed out.

“If you try anything…” he muttered.

“I know. I won’t survive the attempt,” said Tiresius with a smile, “But I must insist that you have nothing to fear from me. We’re both on the same side here. The cult and I have not been on speaking terms for nigh on thirty years.”

“So you say.”

“And now, I wish nothing more than for that orb to be destroyed,” said Tiresius, stepping forward and, finally, offering a hand to Creon in peace. He gave a kindly smile, and continued, “You know me as the Tyrantborn, and when I was young, I was called Deathbringer. My name for now is Tiresius. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Creon stared into Tiresius’ face, and then down at the gold’s hand. He sneered, before he reached up and slapped the hand away harshly, walking past.

“I don’t need your friendship,” he muttered, “We’re going to Candlekeep.”

“Yes indeed,” said Tiresius, breathing out. He seemed disappointed, and looked down at his hand, but resolved himself to keeping a strong face. He wanted, desperately, to get through to this young man, to prove that he wasn’t the Deathbringer anymore. Eventually, he turned and called out, “Mr. Bundle. We’ve two more guests. Friends of ours as it happens. Do you think you might see your way clear to giving them a ride to Candlekeep as well?”

\--

By the time Balthezar and Vanya had managed to traverse the entirety of the way of the lion, both were looking worse for wear. Deep bags under both of their eyes gave away the sheer depth of their exhaustion. However, despite this, and despite the general malaise Balthezar had found himself under following the loss of both Caliban and Creon at the same time, Balthezar was strangely elated as he looked up at the high walls of Candlekeep. His home, once again, after all these years.

Candlekeep was, if anything, grander than he remembered. It was a massive multi-tiered fortress – more like a castle if he had to name it – with high, tipped spires and clean white stone, perched precariously on the edge of the cliffside that lay at the end of the way of the lion. The outer wall stood between them and the fortress city which stood between the outer and inner walls which enclosed the highest, most central structure of Candlekeep. The library itself stood, proud and imposing, more military embankment than archive, and the sight of it, despite the awe-inspiring gloom of grey gargoyles and wrought iron spikes, caused Balthezar a strange comfort. It was, more than any other place except by the side of his friends in Waterdeep, home.

“There it is,” said Balthezar, leaning an arm on the sweat-slick mane of the one remaining horse as Vanya led it by the rein, “The library.”

“Fortified. Good,” muttered Vanya, barely glancing up at the tall spires.

“Is that all you have to say? That there is the greatest archive of mortal knowledge known to the Sword Coast and beyond.”

“Good thing it’s so well-protected then,” said Vanya, “Come.”

Balthezar tore his gaze away from the fortification to stare at Vanya with faint admonishment, but the human did not return the look. Instead, they approached the front gate of the outer wall, where a tall, wrought iron gate stood. They could see a pair of guards standing before the gate, acolytes wearing blue robes under armor very much in the same style that Balthezar tended to wear.

“Friends of yours?”

“I can’t tell from this distance. It’s been two years. I don’t know everyone.”

Suddenly, from behind, the two of them heard the sounds of quick hoofbeats and the squeak of wagon wheels. Vanya turned first, followed soon after by Balthezar. The two, seeing the wagon approaching fast, led the horse out of the path and waited for them to pass by. The windows were curtained, preventing them from seeing inside, but the carriage was relatively expensive. The only hint of whoever was inside was a gloved hand which pushed a red velvet curtain out of the way as they passed. Balthezar hardly paid the cart any more mind after that, instead continuing on towards the outer wall. The library was visited often by people of noble breeding who wished to educate themselves about this or that, or even to study under one of the great wizards-scribes who called Candlekeep home.

However, as Balthezar and Vanya continued on after the cart, they were puzzled to see it beginning to slow, and finally come to a full stop. Balthezar blinked his eyes. He was suspicious all of a sudden. They were so close. They couldn’t be waylaid now.

His misgivings were eased in the next instant, when the door of the carriage was kicked open by a steel-toed boot, causing Balthezar to jump and Vanya to immediately draw his whip to defend himself. However, Balthezar recognized that boot. He recognized the dirty trousers, stained armor, and long, plaited black hair running down the back of the half orc who stepped out of the cart. Hotspur turned to stare at Balthezar, astonished. The dragonborn was sure she would immediately yell at him. After all, he had left so suddenly, and their communication had been less than ideal. To his surprise, however, she rushed forward and, with a camaraderie he rarely saw from her, Balthezar found himself swept up in a fraternal hug.

“You son of a bitch, where were you?” she yelled into his ear, before she pulled away from him and looked him up and down, taking in the rumpled clothes and the hint of exhaustion, “Did you walk this whole way? You look like hell.”

“Part of the way, I’m afraid,” said Balthezar, his smile growing as he reached up to rest his hands on his companion’s shoulders, “Gods, it’s good to see you, Hotspur.”

“Same,” she grunted, before looking past him, at the human traveling with him. Balthezar saw Hotspur’s blue eyes narrow as she turned up her nose, seeming to take in this ruddy blonde man that Balthezar was traveling with.

“Oh, er…” Balthezar stammered, realizing that Vanya and Hotspur were likely strangers, “Hotspur, this is…”

“Vanya Greylash,” another voice cut in, of the old woman who was climbing out of the carriage, slowly. She had a grand smile on her face as she leaned heavily on her cane. “It’s good to finally see you again, Vanya.”

Vanya all but growled, “Shortbread.”

“Ms. Shortbread, please,” the old woman insisted, “But my, my, this must be this Balthezar Cloudgazer I keep hearing so much about. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly, young man.”

“O-oh. Uh. Hello.”

“Beatrice Shortbread,” she said, offering a hand, and he politely took it, “Ms. Shortbread, if you please.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, sensing it would be a good idea to comply, “Are you a friend of Hotspur’s then?”

“Of a sort,” she said, “But I’m really here for Vanya.”

“I’m not going back. You can tell my grandmother the same thing I said to her. I’ve renounced my title. I don’t intend to...”

“Oh, Vanya, you wound me,” said Ms. Shortbread as she passed the dragonborn and half orc by and approached the other human, “I’m here to aid you in this little orb debacle we find ourselves in. Introducing you to your bride to be is a… happy coincidence.”

“Bride…? Hotspur?” asked Balthezar, eyes going wide as he looked from the half orc to the humans, “Oh my.”

“Stow it, Balthezar,” Hotspur muttered through clenched teeth, “Business first. Speaking of the orb, where’s Caliban?”

Balthezar’s mouth fell open all of a sudden, but only silence came forth. Eventually, he looked away, his small horns furrowing as he tried to find the words.

“Balthezar?” asked Hotspur, her own expression softening and fading as she saw Balthezar’s sudden shock.

“Dead,” Vanya grunted, “Along with the other dragonborn, Creon. They fought, fell into the sea. Probably drowned.”

“D-dead?”

Balthezar’s silence was all Hotspur got in answer. She was staggered by the news, her jaw clenching hard and her teeth grinding together. She could feel emotions welling up in her – sadness and shock primary among them. She rejected both immediately and fell back on something far more comfortable. Anger.

Hotspur strode past Balthezar and towards Vanya, before snatching the collar of his leathers in her strong hand. His thin frame was jerked forward by the immense strength of the half-orc, and immediately she was in control.

“What happened? Really?”

“The orb possessed the lizard,” said Vanya, “Creon got himself killed protecting Balthezar. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” she roared in his face, “One of my friends is dead, round ears! You mean to tell me you screwed up so bad you lost not only my friend, but that asshole who was working with you?”

“Hotspur, please,” Balthezar said, weakly, “It wasn’t Vanya’s…”

“Stay out of this, Balthezar!” she cried, pushing the dragonborn away and rounding on the human again, “You know how long we’ve been searching for you Vanya Greylash?”

“You? I don’t even know you.”

“You’re damn right,” she muttered, before she glanced him up and down, “Gods, you’re skinny.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, before she pushed hard on his shoulder, causing him to flinch back and nearly fall over. She then turned away from him with a haughty expression to mask the grief she felt inside for the loss of Caliban, and began to walk back towards the carriage, “Come on.”

“Er… Hotspur,” said Balthezar, “They won’t let us in without a book. Well… they’ll let me in, but I don’t believe you’ll all have the same exception. The price for admission is…”

“A unique book, yes?” said the old woman, as she reached down into a handbag and produced a small, black book, “I have that covered, dearie.”

“What is…?”

“A lady had her secrets, Balthezar,” she said, reaching a hand up to silence the dragonborn, “Come along.”

With that, the old woman began to totter down the road, not even bothering to climb back into the carriage, preferring to enter Candlekeep on foot. Vanya, Balthezar, and Hotspur stared after her, and, finally, with nothing else to do, followed.

“Er…” Balthezar began, “I sort of wish I hadn’t told you to keep Tiresius behind. I could use more friendly faces right now. Creon… I tried to save him at the very last minute, but…”

“Creon? The silver?”

“He, um…” Balthezar could feel himself beginning to blush, and Hotspur noticed immediately, “He and I grew rather close while searching for Caliban. I… I wanted… I wanted you all to meet him properly.”

“It’s… it’s going to be fine, Balthezar,” Hotspur insisted, unsure of what to say. Caliban’s apparent death had hit her hard as well, and she could sense that the death of this Creon person was hitting Balthezar as hard. “What about the orb?”

“Probably lost at sea. We’re here to tell the scribes. Perhaps they can send an excavation team down there after it,” said Balthezar, before his face took on a hard edge and he continued, “It must be destroyed.”

“It… drove Caliban crazy. Yeah. If I see it I’m certainly giving it a whack with father’s axe.”

“I doubt it would do much. Artifacts of that level of power are rarely felled by simple, mundane weaponry.”

As the two of them spoke, with Vanya trailing after them with a sour look on his face, Ms. Shortbread took point, hailing the two guards. It was a dwarf and a half-elf, both wearing armor and wielding simple, blunt maces, but both wearing symbols of Deneir around their necks, identical to the one that adorned Balthezar. Both had helmets on which obscured their faces.

“Halt!” the dwarf called.

The half-elf continued, “State your business with Candlekeep.”

“We have business with the library,” said Ms. Shortbread, holding up the book, “As per the usual toll, a book, and a little extra. I’ve brought you back one of your lost children.”

The two guards seemed confused at this, until Ms. Shortbread used her little black book to gesture towards Balthezar. Immediately the imposing posture of the two guards melted away, and after a moment of stunned silence, both cried out in exuberant joy.

“Cloudgazer!”

“What?” asked Balthezar as he was suddenly rushed by the two guards, who both ran up to him and reached down to snatch his hand up to shake. As the dwarf shook his hand raw, the half-elf removed his helmet, revealing a mop of brunette hair and tall, dramatic elven features.

“Wait a moment. Martinet. Is that you?” asked the green dragonborn.

“Of course, it’s me. By Oghma’s beard, you little klutz. You don’t remember your friends? Gwyn, take off your helm. Let Cloudgazer see you.”

“Gwyn!” cried Balthezar, and soon enough, the dwarf took off her helmet, revealing a short-cropped beard beneath pretty features, a wide smile, and even wider eyes.

“We had a pool going when you’d either die or come crawling back!” she said, slapping Balthezar so hard on the back that the air was knocked out of him, “But the letters just kept on coming in. Little One took to reading ‘em out in the common room.”

“Little One! Gosh, I haven’t seen him in ages,” Balthezar said, smile growing, overtaken by nostalgia, “Er… Gwyn, Martinet, these are my friends and associates. Hotspur, Vanya, and of course Ms. Shortbread. She has an offering for the archive.”

“Indeed, well, let me see it,” said Gwyn as she held out a hand for the little black notebook in Ms. Shortbread’s grip. She let it go without a fuss. All business all of a sudden, the dwarf and half elf began to flip through the book, before Martinet cast a spell upon it, seeming to divine something. Eventually, he nodded his head.

“It’s a good one, apparently,” Martinet said with a smile, “I haven’t had a proper lowland pie in ages.”

“Pie…?” asked Hotspur, “It’s a cookbook?”

“A little collection of recipes I’ve been saving up,” said Ms. Shortbread, “I’ve got most of them copied down elsewhere. I’ve been trying to declutter a bit.”

“A fine addition to the archive, I’m sure,” insisted Balthezar with a smile.

“I dunno,” said Hotspur, “I expected something a little more… mystical.”

Balthezar simply smiled wider, happy to explain, “Candlekeep values all knowledge, Hotspur, no matter what it is. We have our areas of expertise, but no man can know everything. Candlekeep strives to collect everything it can for the sake of future generations.”

“And with that,” said Gwyn, before she called up to the gate operators, “Hoy! You lot! Raise the gate! Cloudgazer’s back!”

A voice called down, exclaiming “Cloudgazer?” before a switch was pulled and the gate began to rise. Balthezar had gone rather pale, and Hotspur was staring into his face, faintly amused at the sudden celebrity of her friend.

“You’re real popular here, ain’t you?”

“I… I was never this, er, popular before.”

“Maybe being chosen by an egghead god made you king of the eggheads,” teased Hotspur.

“Come now, Hotspur…” he muttered, embarrassed suddenly.

As the gate rose, the four adventurers stood, staring into the sight which greeted them. Between the inner and outer walls, they saw that a densely packed village had sprung up, with neat little wooden houses set in packed-in rows and dotted with shops and small gardens where the people who lived here seemed to grow their own food. Balthezar, unable to contain his excitement, walked at the head of the group, hardly regarding anything as odd, while the rest turned their eyes to and fro to take in the sights. To Hotspur’s eyes, it seemed empty. For such a massive fortress, it seemed as if hardly anyone at all lived there. As they walked along the thin dirt road, a few people poked their heads out of windows or out of doors. Most were on the older side, although there were a few younger people working the fields here and there. It suddenly became clear to Hotspur why Balthezar was such a polite stiff when he first got to Waterdeep. Growing up with nobody but old people and scholars would make anyone boring as hell.

Waving his hand at anyone he recognized, Balthezar’s snout was split into an amazed smile. Murmurs rose up over the town and more onlookers slowly emerged on the side of the street. Eventually, to Balthezar’s surprise, he found himself in a one-man parade as he walked on towards the inner wall separating the town from the library. He could hear people calling his name, and he went wide-eyed as he realized what was going on. This was a heroes’ welcome. Everyone knew who he was. Everyone knew what his mission had been. Thanks to his fellow students, everyone knew all about his adventures. The older people in town looked on with pride, and the younger students with awe. His smile faded and he slowed his pace, until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Hotspur, who stared hard into Balthezar’s face. She could see sudden tears beginning to form at the corners of his wide eyes, and he blinked them away, raising his sleeve to wipe his face as subtly as he could.

“Balthezar,” she said, as gently as she could, “You okay?”

“Wh-what? Oh, yes,” he said, looking away from her, “I… I just… I wish Caliban and Creon were here.”

“God you’re depressing,” said Hotspur with a smile, before she threw an arm around his shoulder roughly, “Go on. Wave to the fans, Hometown hero.”

He looked over into her face, seeing the kindly smile there, and took comfort from it. He breathed in deeply and raised an arm once again to wave one green scaly paw towards the crowd that had formed around them as they cut through the town. Eventually, the inner wall loomed over them, and immediately the guards who had been informed of Balthezar’s arrival called out a hail for Cloudgazer, and the gate began to open. Before stepping through, Balthezar turned around and stared out over the small crowd that had formed. He recognized so many of those face, all of whom he had not seen for two years. As Ms. Shortbread, Vanya, and the horse trudged on past, Hotspur and Balthezar simply stood, staring out over the crowd, and Balthezar couldn’t help himself. He had missed Candlekeep so much. He had missed these people, the town, and the library so much. It was as if he had ripped a bandage from a scab that had yet to heal fully, and all of the emotions he had thought he had sorted through long ago began to bubble forth. Tears streamed down his face freely, but he refused to look away as the crowd called in unison. Cloudgazer. Cloudgazer. That name that had once been such an embarrassing insult to him had finally come to mean something good and wonderful. He was glad to hear it, but also, the absence of those who had used that name outside of Candlekeep hurt. There was a hole in his heart, still, similar to the one he had felt when he first left Candlekeep two years before. He had returned, but he had left something behind as well. People he loved. He was certain in that moment he might never see them again. He nodded his head, reaching up first to take off his glasses and wipe his eyes, and then to give one final wave to a swell of cheering from the town. He then turned and entered the inner walls, as Hotspur escorted him, arm around his shoulder to support her friend.

\--

Once Balthezar had managed to wipe the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief and composed himself somewhat, he led the group on to the front of the library itself. Unlike the rather small village outside the inner walls, the library was an imposing structure, somewhere between a cathedral, a school, and a castle, with people in blue robes all around the campus wandering about or carrying books. As Balthezar walked from the front gate to the open front doors of the fortress itself, he was somewhat glad that the scribes and students surrounding them were too focused on their own tasks to make much fuss out of Balthezar’s presence. After dropping their horse off at a feeding trough to one side, they made their way inside. There, they were met by a strange sight.

Hotspur, Ms. Shortbread, and Vanya were all startled as they entered the front foyer of the fortress. There was a long, winding staircase in the center which lead up to the upper floors, and doors all around leading deeper into the castle. The whole place smelled of book binding. Leather, glue, and old paper dominated their noses. However, that did not surprise the group. What surprised them was the gigantic man standing in the front hall, at least 10 feet tall, with a massive gut, sharp tusks, and sallow, grey skin. He stood in the hall before them, smiling around his sharp teeth. Vanya and Hotspur were both reaching for their weapons by reflex. An Ogre, after all, was nothing to scoff at.

“Little One!” cried Balthezar suddenly as he beheld the massive Ogre, who was, nonetheless wearing the same blue robes as the rest, and also had around his head a tightly fitted band of jewel-encrusted gold. The dragonborn couldn’t help himself, and he rushed forward and threw his arms around the large gut of the Ogre, to the surprise of the half orc and both humans, and the Ogre simply laughed and reached down to encircle the slight dragonborn in a hug.

“It’s good to see you, Cloudgazer,” said the Ogre with a smile, showing off rows of uneven tusks. He spoke in an even, gentle tone, with an over-proper accent which was very much like Balthezar’s, “I heard you were back. Gwyn and Martinet sent a message before you. You should have written that you were coming.”

“I… I’m afraid I didn’t have much time. We were rather in a hurry…” Balthezar muttered, before he pulled away from the hug and looked up into Little One’s face, “Is the Master Scribe in? I simply must speak with Master Tethil at once.”

“He’s in his study at the moment,” said Little One, “Would you like me to send someone? Is it an emergency?”

“It is,” said Balthezar, his face growing hard.

The ogre could see the resolve in the dragonborn’s face in that moment, and he nodded his head, before he turned and bellowed deeper in, “Cloudgazer here to see Master Tethil! The Chosen of Deneir has returned!”

In response to the cry, every head turned to stare at Little One. Soon, a hafling began to run down the stairs, hopping frantically to take them two or three at a time, and soon, he ran between the Ogre’s legs and looked up at Balthezar with a nervous expression.

“Oh!” said Balthezar, surprised by the sudden appearance of the halfling, “Hello.”

“Oh. Hello,” The young Halfling said, and Hotspur had to suppress a snort of laughter. It was as if there was another, shorter Balthezar standing there. The halfling continued, “Uh, Master Cloudgazer, please. This way. Master Tethil will see you.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Balthezar with a smile as he followed.

“Uh… I-I’m just a student. I’ve nothing… nothing to do w-with your honored mission. Pay me no mind!”

“Nonsense! You’re Master Tethil’s assistant, yes?”

The halfling blinked his eyes and, slowly, nodded as he climbed the stairs. The Ogre, satisfied, turned to the rest of the party and jerked his head to one side, indicating that they should follow the halfling and the dragonborn up the stairs. Hotspur and Ms. Shortbread wasted no time, and Vanya only held back for a moment before he too followed along, with a suspicious glance in Little One’s direction.

“I am,” said the halfling, “I’m Brutus. Brutus Wheelbarrow.”

“Well, I’m…”

“… I know exactly who you are, sir!” cried Brutus, smiling wide. He was quite young, probably only a few decades old, and his smooth, round face was wide and honest as he reached up to adjust his glasses and continued, “The chosen! The Cleric of Deneir who came into his power under Master Tethil’s guidance. You’ve been out and about in the world learning all you can about your power, yes?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” said Balthezar, adjusting his own glasses, “It’s odd that everyone seems so excited to see me.”

“Odd, sir? You’re a legend! Everyone knows the name Balthezar Cloudgazer, sir!”

“Gosh. I wasn’t anyone special when I was studying here. Surely you know that.”

Brutus seemed nervous all over again, and he answer, “W-well, I only came to study under Master Tethil last year, so… all I ever heard were the letters Little One would read in the bar.”

“Oh! Well, I hope my adventures have been exciting then.”

“And you!” cried the halfling as he turned and began to walk backwards up the stairs, pointing at Hotspur, “You’re Hotspur! The Half-orc noblewoman Hellena Eagleshield, who’s conflicted about her place in Waterdeep society!”

Hotspur was surprised to be addressed like that, and then she was annoyed. She looked over at Balthezar, who had the good sense to look sheepish. “You wrote about me?”

“He wrote about everyone, ma’am!” he cried, before looking past her, perhaps eager to meet more heroes he might recognize, “Where are the other three? Master Puck, and Master Pequod, and of course good old reliable C…”

“I think you’d better get on with the tour, lad,” snapped Hotspur, picking the young halfling up by the collar, turning him completely around and slapping him hard on the back to get him to hurry up, “Don’t want to keep your master waiting, eh?”

“O-oh! Uh. Sorry!” he cried, quickening his pace in blessed silence.

The rest of the trip up to Master Tethil’s study was punctuated by several halting conversations where various scholars would approach the party. Balthezar recognized several of them, acting immediately deferential to the ones wearing the more official-looking robes and icons. Others, however, were unknown to Balthezar, and he was put in the position of awkwardly fielding strange, worshipful behavior towards him. Eventually, Brutus led them to a simple door on the fourth floor of the fortress, rapping lightly on the wood.

“Come in,” said a low, proper-sounding voice.

Brutus nodded, seeming pleased with himself, before he hopped up and grabbed hold of the doorknob, his slippers dangling off the floor. He used the entire weight of his body to turn the knob with a grunt, and soon the door swung open and he hopped down, pushing it further, and turning to regard the guests with a bow.

“The master will see you now,” he said, with a stolid, proper tone.

“Thank you,” said Balthezar, pushing his way inside.

Immediately, Balthezar was nearly overwhelmed by the sight of the familiar study of Master Tethil. It was a wide room, lined from wall to wall and floor to ceiling with bookshelves where the Master’s private collection was kept, some of which were kept safe behind locked glass cases. There were simple wooden stands set up where large tomes were resting open in mid-perusal, and a gold-crusted globe of the world of Toril sat in one corner, bringing to mind Balthezar’s education about not only the history of the Sword Coast, but of the entirety of Toril as it was known to the Scholars at Candlekeep.

The Master Scribe himself was seated at a mahogany desk which was piled with stacks of books. With one pink, liver-spotted hand he wrote with a quill pen on a piece of unrolled parchment, and with the other he was weaving some simple magic, causing the energy around his hand to shift from flames, to frost, to crackling electricity, and finally to a shower of harmless energy when he closed and opened his hand completely. He finished the line he was working on and placed the pen into its well, before he waved the hand holding the simple magic inside, dispelling the effects. He then looked up, and his eyes met Balthezar’s.

The man appeared human, but Balthezar knew he actually had quite a lot of elf in his family background. His white beard and greying hair would make one think he was in his 70s or 80s, but in truth he was at least past a hundred years, and he had since stopped counting. He smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling up, as he regarded Balthezar, and he stood.

“Welcome home,” he said, walking around the desk and approaching. His pace quickened, overcome suddenly by emotion and he threw his arms around the dragonborn, repeating, “Welcome home!”

“Master Tethil!” cried Balthezar, smiling and reaching up to embrace his teacher, “Gosh I missed you. I missed everyone.”

“I missed you as well, my boy,” he said. He spoke in an elvish accent, and Hotspur realized that it matched both Balthezar’s and Little One’s accents fairly well. “Let me see your hands, please.”

Balthezar pulled away from the hug then and opened his hands for his teacher to see. The old man snatched the dragonborn’s green-scaled hands up and began to inspect them, running his hands across the rough lines he found there, his smile growing as he did. He furrowed his brow at the calluses he found at the edges of his palms where Balthezar had swung his weapon, but immediately relaxed as he saw something inscrutable to the eyes of those who had not studied magic and gave a wistful sigh.

“Good!” he said with a laugh, “Good! You’ve been practicing. Good boy!”

“I did what you told me, Master,” he answered, nodding, “I’ve been growing in power, using this gift Deneir has given me. We’ve done some marvelous things.”

“So I hear,” said Master Tethil, looking up at the dragonborn, “I still regret I could never get much more than a cantrip out of you, but everything seems to have worked out just how it should. Fate, or destiny, or what-have-you. It’s all here in your palm.”

Balthezar seemed to accept this, although Hotspur seemed skeptical, and she crossed her arms. At this point, Master Tethil realized he had other visitors, and he turned to regard them with some dignity.

“Ah, and you all must be friends of Balthezar,” he said, walking past his former student and offering a hand for each to shake in turn, “My name is Tethil. I am one of the Master Scribes here at Candlekeep. I’m also one of the schoolmasters for the children.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Ms. Shortbread, speaking up first, “My name is Beatrice Shortbread. Call me Ms. Shortbread please. This is Vanya Greylash, and this is Hotspur. She’s a friend of Balthezar’s.”

“Are you? Good! The boy needs friends! Always did!” cried the scribe as he snatched the half-orc’s hand up in his own, seeming not to care about her species one bit.

“Well, nice to meet you, I guess,” said Hotspur.

“Are there many children here? I’ve seen very few,” asked Ms. Shortbread.

“Oh, we get a few every year,” explained Tethil, reaching up to run a hand through his white beard, “Rich people send their young men to learn magic, or we get pilgrims from other libraries. Balthezar here was a unique one. Left on the doorstep one day like someone left out the day’s milk. No note, no wordly possessions outside of a basket. Just an egg wrapped in some sheets and a few days later a bouncing baby boy.”

“Master, please,” said Balthezar with a blush.

“Oh, no, the boy is embarrassed by me. Practically raised him and you should have seen him in his rougher years. Fifteen years old and he hardly ever wanted to talk to me, no sir.”

“I was going through some hard times then, Master,” Balthezar said, before his expression shifted from one of tender embarrassment to a hard, businesslike look, “But unfortunately, there isn’t much time for reminiscing. I’m afraid there’s an emergency.”

“Yes?”

Balthezar nodded, before he walked over to the door and made sure that it was closed. He then began to pace the room, speaking as he did.

“There’s an artifact of some power,” he explained, “We encountered it as we were going through Baldur’s Gate. It… claimed the lives of two of our companions so far.”

“Oh dear,” said Master Tethil, his face falling, “Where is this artifact?”

“Lost, currently,” he explained, “It fell from a cliff about halfway down the way of the lion. I suspect… if you find the… the corpses…”

Balthezar could not speak any further from the hitch in his voice as he suddenly felt himself grow weak. He had to lean against one of the bookshelves for support and shook his head. Concerned, Master Tethil immediately rushed forward and placed both hands on the dragonborn’s shoulders.

“Balthezar? What is it? Are you alright?”

“I… Yes of course… it’s just…”

Hotspur cut in, then, “They were important to him.”

Tethil turned to gaze over at the half-orc then, blinking his eyes. Her blue ones were hard, but still, she managed to indicate what she meant by a raise of her eyebrows and a nod of her head. Master Tethil stared for a moment, but eventually realized what Balthezar was feeling, his eyes widening. He suddenly seemed quite uncomfortable, but still managed to turn towards his former student and awkwardly blinked his eyes, hesitating before offering much in the way of affection.

“Oh you poor thing,” he said, finally, “You’ve been traveling for such a long time and you’ve been through so much. Before you say anything else, I insist we find you a bed to sleep in. Alright?”

“A-alright,” he said, weakly, “But I… I do want you to find…”

“We’ll find them. I’ll ask for descriptions from your friends. For now, you? You go off to bed. Brutus, please show Balthezar off to your room. Let him have a lie down.”

“I-in my room!?” cried Brutus, “Gosh! I’m gonna have a hero sleeping in my bed? Wowie! Come along Master Cloudgazer! Let’s go at once!”

With that, the halfling stretched up to take the dragonborn by the hand and, excited, led him out of the room and down the hall. Balthezar, exhausted down to his soul all of a sudden, let the halfling lead him off and gave only a small wave to the rest as a goodbye. Tethil watched them go with growing concern, before he turned to the rest of the adventurers and smiled.

“Thank you for taking good care of our boy, all of you. It is rather unprofessional to say but… young Balthezar was… almost like a son to… to all the schoolmasters here. You are all welcome here. I’ll have a porter make up a few rooms for you. We live humble lives here, but for helping our chosen you will not want for food, knowledge, or friendship. Thank you all.”

With that, Ms. Shortbread and Vanya both gave a wordless bow. Ms. Shortbread said, “I think I’ll take you up on the offer. We’ll be able to explain better once we’ve had a rest. Come along you two.”

Vanya followed, but Hotspur did not. She stood, staring, at Master Tethil, until she said, “You two go on ahead.”

“Hotspur?”

“Just curious about something,” she grunted, turning with a sharp look towards them, showing her teeth, “Go on, leave.”

Vanya was the first to shrug and leave the room, but Ms. Shortbread, unused to being out of the loop and not liking it one bit, hesitated before she too left, closing the door behind her. Alone with Master Tethil, Hotspur stood straight and proud in the center of the room while the old man, seeming shaken by the emotional damage of his student, crept behind the desk and began to rummage around for something.

“Well?” asked Master Tethil, “You wanted to ask something about Balthezar, I suspect. You’re Hotspur. I’ve heard a great deal about you from his letters.”

“I imagine so,” she answered, dropping the rough accent she usually put on as Hotspur and speaking in the more natural, upper-class way she was used to speaking around people of status. This man knew who she was. No need to pretend here. “He’s hurt, and worse than I thought he would be.”

“He’s lost someone important to him, yes?” said Tethil, before he produced a bottle of wine and two glasses, “It’s Caliban.”

Hotspur paused, and then nodded, “Not just Caliban. Another person. Creon. I don’t know him, but they apparently met on the road. His death affected Balthezar too much for there not to be something between them.”

“Oh, my poor boy,” muttered Tethil, pouring two generous glasses without asking, and offering one to the half-orc, “Here. As thanks for making sure he’s been safe these past two years.”

She took the glass but did not drink immediately. “He’s gone through a lot. I just want to make sure he’s going to be taken care of here.”

“Taken care of?”

“I don’t know the full story of his time here,” she explained, swirling the wine around in the glass, watching as the ruby liquid coated the sides, before holding it up to the candle light to judge the color, “but he had a hard time, yes?”

Master Tethil was silent for a moment, contemplating the wine in his glass and refusing to look up into Hotspur’s face. He took a pensive sip, before he finally closed his eyes and found the words to say.

“Balthezar was… always a lonesome child. The only one of his kind here. He was always very eager to please but… never quite knew how to manage it.”

“I believe that.”

“In many ways an exemplary student, but in others… well,” Master Tethil grimaced, before he took another, larger gulp of wine, “He was never a talented boy. That’s why his divine powers came as such a shock.”

“He seems like he was just as shocked as anybody,” said Hotspur.

“I must ask why you want to know all of this? Surely it would be faster to just ask Balthezar.”

“I wanted to hear it from you, to see if you were good for him,” she said, before she took a sip of her wine, tasting it with some judgement. She nodded her head. “To see if this place will be good for him.”

“He’s got nothing to fear anymore. Since the letters started coming, he’s become rather a folk hero around these parts.”

“He doesn’t need to be a folk hero right now. He needs to heal,” said Hotspur, before she tipped back the wine, chugging the rest, and offering the empty glass to the scribe, “That isn’t what I’m good at. Usually when we all had problems it’s Balthezar who helps us through them. He lost the most important person in his life, then immediately found another most important person and lost them too in the span of a week. I’d be surprised if he ever wanted to go out into the world ever again.”

“What do you…?”

“Just… think about it,” said Hotspur, turning and starting to leave, “I like Balthezar. He’s a good friend. I’ve only got four friends, and I lost one of them when he went off a cliff. I don’t want to lose another one. Help him, please.”

With that, Hotspur pushed her way out of the door before he could ask her any more questions, and before her hard, imperious expression could crack and betray to this man how emotional she was about the death of Caliban. She did not look back and stomped her way down the hall without another word.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creon and Tiresius arrive at Candlekeep just as a dark power begins to sink its fingers into one of the heroes.

Caliban liked Rosalind Tossfeather a lot, as it turns out. Almost immediately, as they traveled, she ingratiated herself on him by feeding him bits of good spiced jerky and fruit. She had by far the best tasting trail rations he had ever eaten, and of the people he was traveling with, she liked him the best. Since the four had begun walking on towards Candlekeep, Tiresius and Creon had hardly said anything to one another. The gold dragonborn had tried many times, but Creon’s stony silence was all that answered him. It was exhausting to both Caliban and Rosalind, and the two of them bonded in spite of the tension between the former cultist and former soldier.

“So, tell me more about Cloudgazer, then,” said Rosalind as she sat on Caliban’s shoulder, hugging herself to the bulky lizard’s neck. She smiled as she asked, taking a conspiratorial tone, “What do you like about him so much?”

“Hmmmmm,” Caliban considered, “I have told you. Cloudgazer is good.”

“What’s good about him?”

Caliban thought for a moment, trying to find the words to say. However, he could not. He still remembered the hate he had felt when under the power of the creature inside the orb, and found that although he knew Cloudgazer was good, he could not remember exactly why.

“I… do not know. He is just…”

“He’s kind,” Creon said, interjecting into their conversation.

“Oh boy, Snout speaks. I thought you’d dropped your tongue off that cliff.”

Tiresius couldn’t restrain a small laugh, and Creon narrowed his eyes and stared at the gold dragonborn. However, he said nothing to the older man, instead shoving his hands into the pockets of his tattered trousers and grumbling.

“Well, go on,” said Rosalind.

“What?”

“Caliban’s head’s not in a good place right now, I can tell,” said Rosalind with pity as she reached up to pat the lizard on top of the head, “Maybe you can help him.”

“With what?”

“Remembering why he likes Balthezar so much.”

Creon was thoughtful at this. In all honesty, he couldn’t really put it into words himself. Their affair had been so brief, and Creon honestly didn’t expect it to stick with him as much as it had. The young cleric was a fling. Nobody serious. Balthezar had a deeper relationship with the lizard than he did with Creon. It made no sense for him to feel much beyond fondness for the green dragonborn, but he found, despite all of this, that he was distracted the more that soft face ran through his mind.

“Snout?”

“Huh?”

“You went real quiet all of a sudden.”

“Well…” muttered Creon.

Tiresius spoke up then, “Thinking of him, aren’t you?”

“You be quiet.”

“I won’t,” snapped the gold with a frown, “You’re fond of him.”

“Got a problem with that?”

“Well, considering you want to kill me, I’m a little hesitant to just sit here and let you pine after someone I’ve come to respect.”

“Pine… you make me sound like a child.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are a child,” said Tiresius, letting just the hint of an edge sneak into his voice, “So is Balthezar, so are Rosalind and Caliban, and Hotspur. Y’all got problems, but you specifically got something roiling deep down inside.”

“How do you…?”

“It’s easy to tell. I’ve known you. I’ve known people like you. You feel so deep and you can’t figure out how to let it show on the outside. All that feeling got beat out of you, maybe in the military, maybe by your parents, maybe by whatever awful things happened to you, and now you’re letting everything fester inside. Well, I won’t stand for that, no sir. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you’re not just a dangerous cultist, you’re also a pretentious old man.”

“Ah, so you’ve known people like me as well, then?” Tiresius said, letting his edge melt away with a laugh.

Creon seemed about to snap once again, before he narrowed his eyes and stayed silent. He looked away, pointedly, and found himself beginning to think of Balthezar once again. He tried to find the words, if only just to get this gold to shut up until they got to Candlekeep.

“He’s kind.”

“You said that already, Snout,” said Rosalind.

“Well I said it again!” he said through clenched teeth, “He knows you better than you know yourself. He knows when you’re hurting and he just says… well, he just knows what to say to make it not hurt as much. Okay? That’s probably why… why Caliban likes him so much.”

Caliban stared at Creon then, and for a moment their eyes met. Creon was the first to look away, embarrassed all of a sudden, but Caliban never did. As they walked, one of Caliban’s eyes was focused on Creon at all times, and soon, the lizardfolk began to approach, before reaching down to grab hold of one of the silver dragonborn’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Creon demanded, pulling his hand away.

“Snout,” said Caliban, nodding his head, before he reached down once again and took the dragonborn’s hand, “Snout said good things about Cloudgazer. Things that are true. Snout is good too.”

Creon stared down at his hand, horned brow furrowed, and then back up at Caliban, and, finally, around to stare at Rosalind’s charmed expression and Tiresius’ gentle approval. Embarrassment bloomed in Creon’s chest, but still, he didn’t pull his hand away at once. He let it sit in the lizard’s for a moment before he pulled it away, gentler this time.

“Thank you, Caliban. That means a lot coming from you.”

As he said this, the four travelers rounded a bend, and all of a sudden, they all beheld the fortress of Candlekeep for the first time, standing tall and imposing at the end of the way of the lion.

“There it is,” said Tiresius, his voice low.

“Wow,” muttered Rosalind with a smile, “That’s a library? Looks like there’s some king or duke living there.”

“It is Cloudgazer’s home,” said Caliban, his tail whipping back and forth as his pace quickened, “Cloudgazer will be there. Cloudgazer is…”

All of a sudden, as Caliban took one more step forward, he froze, the only movement of his body a sudden shiver which began at the base of his tail and traveled up his spine. His eyes widened and he began to growl, and the other three were immediately on edge as they watched the lizardfolk tense up.

“Caliban?” asked Rosalind, worried.

“It’s here,” he said, low, through his growls.

“It…?” asked Tiresius, before his own eyes went wide and he turned back towards the fortress, “The orb? How could it…?”

“I feel it,” Caliban continued, reaching down to hold his belly, “The fire. It is there. The hate. The greed. The feelings. They are returning.”

Creon blinked his eyes. How could that be possible? He stared up at the fortress, and then off to the side, where a cliffside led out over the Sea of Swords. If the orb isn’t at the bottom of the sea, then…

“Vanya,” he muttered, before he began to march forward, quickening his pace.

“Creon?” asked Tiresius, following.

“Just shut up and follow me. I got a feeling I know where it ended up.”

\--

Alone within the private, austere cell they had provided for him as an honored paladin of Tyr, Vanya sat in silence for a time, arms crossed, with his whip laid over his lap. His eyes were closed in solemn meditation, and if anyone had looked in, they might have thought him asleep. His stillness was ended when his eyes opened into a narrow squint. He reached down into his lap, underneath the coils of his whip. There, he withdrew the orb.

“So. There you are,” said Vanya, “I feel you. No need to hide any longer.”

There was no answer, but Vanya wasn’t bothered. He simply nodded. Giving itself away too soon wouldn’t be to the benefit of the entity in this orb. He would be much harder to take hold of than the lizard had been.

“Who are you?” asked Vanya, feeling a strange spark alight within his stomach. Having seen the fire that wreathed Caliban’s teeth, he figured there would be something of the sort as soon as he attuned to the object.

_It is not necessary to know who I am,_ the voice said, finally. Vanya knew there was no going back now. Hearing the voice meant he was within the reach of the creature’s power. He could only pray he had prepared himself well enough.

“It will take a word from me and you will be destroyed.”

_And at the same time they will ask where you procured the orb. Surely they will be suspicious._

“Do not attempt to blackmail me, creature,” said Vanya, tightening the grip on his whip.

_Alright paladin. Instead, how about we bargain?_ Said the voice, sounding too pleased with itself for Vanya to be altogether comfortable, _I can sense it. You want something of me, yes?_

Vanya was silent for a moment, and that was all it took for the voice to laugh and continue.

_Ah yes, of course. There is something you wish for. Something for the sake of the greater good, yes? Otherwise you would have simply destroyed me and washed your hands of the whole thing. The penalties for disobeying your oath are dire, you know._

“I know the rules of my own order, creature,” snapped Vanya, “And I know that you can peer into my mind, yes?”

_You are well-informed. Still, a conversation is far more pleasant._

“You know what I want,” Vanya said, slowly, “So. Is it something you can manage?”

_Bringing your sister back from the dead?_ Asked the voice, _That is what you truly want, yes?_

“I…” Vanya felt himself weaken for a moment, the hitch in his voice betraying how deep to the bone the voice had cut him, “I want an end to my family’s curse.”

_That is not what your heart says, Vanya Greylash. Greylash… I think I know that name. A band of criminals, who fell in with the Wizards of Thay, yes?_

Vanya’s eyes widened imperceptibly, but the fingers inside of his mind noticed all the same.

_Ah, but of course, if I get nothing, why should I give anything as valuable as the information I possess?_

“You’ll not be destroyed. That is all I have to offer you.”

_Forgive me if I do not believe you. You have been tasked with ridding the world of evil, after all. How do I know you will not simply fulfil your oath after using me to end this curse?_

Vanya thought of his answer for a moment, although he needn’t bother, he realized. The orb knew what he was going to say before he said it. He could feel the expansion of this foreign mind within him, probing around in his mind and his memories. He grimaced at the feeling, clenching his jaw, but did not complain.

“You have my word,” he said, slowly, “You give me what I want, I will not destroy you.”

_I would rather not rot in a vault in Candlekeep either._

“You have had your offer, creature, I suggest you take it.”

_Not so fast, paladin. Just one, small counter-offer._

“You have ten seconds to decide, creature! I do not have time to…”

_I need something before I can help you save your sister, paladin. That is all I am trying to say._

“Eight seconds.”

_There is… a book within the archive. A book you will need, my friend. Cease your counting. I will help you. All you need is this book._

“If this is a trick…”

_No trick at all! See? I will show you. May I?_

He could sense the vision at the edges of his brain, waiting politely for his permission before invading his thoughts. Wordlessly, he closed his eyes and nodded, accepting the vision. There was a strange warmth in his mind, just past his eyes. It was not uncomfortable, just a slight heat, and in the wake of it he saw the book the intelligence was talking about. It was large, bound in black leather and chained shut with silver. The pages were clearly old and worn, and the book had no text upon the cover.

“What is it?”

_It would take too long to explain,_ the voice said, _you have been meditating for quite some time. Isn’t it lunchtime? The others will be looking for you._

“Answer the question. What is this…?”

“Oy, Vanya!” a woman’s voice called from the other side of Vanya’s door. The paladin quickly stuffed the orb back into the filthy coinpurse where he had stolen it from Caliban and shoved it in the space between his armor. “You here?”

“What?” he called past the door.

“It’s Hotspur,” the half orc said, “Can I come in? We should talk.”

Vanya swore under his breath before he stood. He took a step towards the door, but the voice seemed to follow, whispering just behind his ear.

_What did I say? No time at all,_ the voice taunted.

“Shut up,” he whispered, before answering the door. There, he saw Hotspur, out of her armor and in a far more casual getup of plain, loose-fitting tunic and trousers over boots with a shine to them. She looked the paladin up and down, as if appraising him, before she raised a hand which was holding a tray with a bowl of stew on it. In her other hand she shook a bottle of amber spirits, and she tilted her head.

“Thought you might be hungry. You busy?”

“Yes,” Vanya said, curt in his manner. He reached for the tray of food, but she jerked it away from him.

“Too bad,” she cracked with a smile before pushing the bottle into his chest with an impact hard enough to cause him to stumble backwards. She then took a step inside, closing the door behind her with a foot and putting the tray down on the little writing desk that sat in each scribe’s room. The cell was tiny, but she used that to her advantage, pulling the chair from the desk and sitting down between the paladin and the portal. Knowing he would be unable to escape, Vanya sat upon the bed.

“What do you want?”

“Honestly, Vanya? I don’t really know,” she said, “It changes from day to day. If you asked me before I got to Baldur’s Gate, I would have said I would be happy if I never saw your face, but now? Well, damn. Color me intrigued. If nothing else I want to see the face of the man with brass ones big enough to throw off his family name for what he believed in.”

“Well, now you’ve seen it.”

Hotspur laughed in the face of Vanya’s humorless monotone, and she gestured, “Drink. We’ll be here for a while.”

“Why? You don’t really want to marry me, do you?”

“Not particularly I don’t,” she said with a frown, “But my mother’s going to want a full report, and my father, too, apparently.”

“That has nothing to do with…”

“I saw Emma.”

The name, Emma, sent a sudden chill through the entirety of Vanya’s body. He clutched the bottle harder with his slim hands and clenched his jaw tighter. Hotspur simply stared, gauging his reaction. With a sigh, knowing he would not be leaving to find that book any time soon, he pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long draught, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and handing the bottle back to the woman.

“You went down to the tomb.”

“I did. Ms. Shortbread wanted me to see what I was getting into.”

“You did not run away screaming. You seem tougher than that.”

“More curious than frightened, yeah,” said Hotspur, “And maybe a little bit of pity. I got a complicated relationship to family. Maybe you noticed.”

Hotspur gave a sardonic laugh as she gestured up to her green face and tusks, before she took a swig from the bottle herself.

“Then again,” she continued, her voice ragged from the burn, “Undead sister is on a whole other level from having an Orc for a father. You’ve been searching for a way to stop it.”

“Yes.”

“Any leads?”

“You met the Tossfeather girl. I thought she might…”

“What about Balthezar? I could talk to him. He’s bound to know something.”

“I spoke with him, yes. He offered his help but… I don’t want to involve organizations like Candlekeep.”

“Well, that’s too bad. We’re already here, aren’t we? Probably the best way to gather information at this point,” said Hotspur, shrugging, “Besides, he doesn’t work for Candlekeep. He works for me. Technically he works for our mutual friend Pequod. If you explained it to him…”

“I can handle my own affairs. I don’t need your pity.”

“I know you think that. It isn’t true, but I understand why you would say that.”

“Eagleshield…”

“Hotspur, please. Unless you want me going around calling you Lord Greylash.”

Vanya flinched, and then shrugged a shoulder.

“Thought not,” Hotspur said, a sassy lilt to her voice as she reached up to take a drink of the bottle. She breathed in deeply, before leaning forward and meeting his eyes, “Whether you get help from Tossfeather or from Balthezar doesn’t matter to me. What I saw down there, well, I won’t soon forget it. I want to help, however I can. Whether you and I see one another ever again after this, that’s what I have decided.”

“Is that so?”

“You know it,” she snapped, “So? We’re sitting in the middle of the capital of all knowledge on the continent. Anything you want to look up?”

Vanya blinked his eyes, slowly, squinting deeply at this half-orc who seemed so determined to help him. He continued to be suspicious but found that he had no reason to be. As long as she didn’t find out about the orb, it was all well.

“Come. I have one book I need to find.”

“Think it’s here?”

“I know it is,” he said, standing up, “We have but to find it.”

\--

“This is important!” Creon cried, letting his voice rise as he argued the point with the two clerics at the gates of the fortress town, “You have to let us in! Everyone in there is in danger.”

Creon was looming over the two of them, Martinet the half-elf staring up into the dragonborn’s face with a hard expression, and Gwyn seeming bored as she stared past him, to the three adventurers who followed him up the Way of the Lion. Martinet had a hand out and had no patience in his voice.

“The cost of entry into Candlekeep is a book not already in the archive,” said the half-elf, “If you have no such book, then I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing, sir.”

“I ain’t got time for this! There’s an artifact in there that…”

“Snout,” muttered Rosalind, tapping Caliban’s shoulder and indicating that he should let her down. Carefully, the lizardfolk reached up and plucked her from his shoulder before setting her down on the ground. She walked up to Creon then and leaned up against his leg. “What’s going on?”

“These two won’t let us pass. Says we need a book.”

“Book… it is a library,” said Caliban, tilting his head, “Surely they have enough books.”

Tiresius couldn’t help but laugh at this comment, causing a look of hate to pass to him from Creon. Martinet spoke up.

“You must add to the knowledge of this place before you can claim any knowledge from it, sirs. One book is enough for all of you to enter. If you don’t have one…”

“W-wait, just… Can you get a message inside for us at least?” Creon demanded, his rage transforming into worry, “We’ve got a message.”

“Sir, do you have a book or not?”

“Listen, damn you!” Creon cried, grabbing the man by both shoulders and thrusting his face forward so that his snout was nearly touching the man’s thin, elven nose, “I got a message for Balthezar Cloudgazer. Did Cloudgazer pass by here?”

At the mention of the green dragonborn, it was plain to see the look of recognition and surprise come over the faces of both acolytes. Gwyn turned and looked up into Martinet’s face, before she crossed her arms.

“What do you want with him?” she asked.

“Everyone in there is in danger. Cloudgazer will know me. Bring him here and…”

“Cloudgazer knows the rules, same as everyone else,” the dwarf interrupted, “He knows you’re not allowed in without a book.”

“I… I…”

“If it’s a book you need, then… why not this one?”

All eyes turned to regard Rosalind as she reached for the large, white book at her side. There was some reticence in her face as she held it in her hands.

“It’s unique. One of a kind, really. Do you need to keep the book?”

“Afraid so,” said Martinet, “It must be catalogued and added to the archive.”

“Then… if I said you could borrow it.”

Gwyn spoke up, “Are you giving us the book or not?”

“I mean… It was a gift, you know? I don’t know if they’ll like it if I…” she muttered, suddenly not so sure, but soon, she hardened her face and stamped her foot. “No! I know this is more important.”

“R-Roz,” said Creon, “But that’s…”

“I don’t care what it is. It’s mine to do with as I please, and I know exactly how important this is,” she said, before she reached up to offer the book, “Here! Take it.”

Gwyn and Martinet both stared at the book for a moment, before turning to look at one another. Martinet was the first to take the book, realizing at once how well-made it was. He got to work at once inspecting it, and as he held his hand over the cover, he began to chant, and a slight glow of energy enveloped his hand.

Suddenly, there was a smell of ozone and a puff of smoke, and Martinet cried out. He opened his hands and the book came tumbling down out of his arms and fell open on the cobbles in front of the gate. Resting on its spine, as if there was a sudden wind, the book began to turn its own pages, slowly at first, and then with increased speed, until it snapped itself shut. Everyone stared at the flawless cover of the book then.

“Wh-what was that?” asked Gwyn.

“I don’t know! It never did that before,” said Rosalind, almost afraid to pick the tome back up.

Martinet, shaking out his hands, blinked his eyes as he processed the result of his spell. He pursed his lips, disappointed and intrigued, but ultimately knowing what had happened.

“We can’t accept this book, ma’am,” he said, “It’s… not ours to have.”

“Huh?”

“Wherever you got that book, it stays with you,” he said, “It’s got too much of… you in it. Your soul.”

“My soul?” she asked, eyes widening. With some reverence, she picked the book back up, and Creon could almost swear he saw the book relax as the halfling’s hands touched it. With a sorrowful expression, Rosalind hugged it to her chest, and said, “Sorry, Snout.”

“It… it’s alright. I didn’t think you’d try something like that for me.”

“I mean, I’m supposed to do good with the book. I thought that would be good, but… I guess it doesn’t work that way.”

Creon clenched his jaw, before he turned back to regard the two acolytes. His mind was racing, trying to figure out how to spin what just happened into another reason why they should be let in. He was just about to begin talking when another voice spoke up.

“I… smell something,” said Caliban, his eyes turning every which way.

“Caliban?” asked Tiresius, “Something that matter?”

Without answering, Caliban began to creep along the wall of the fortress. The two acolytes called out to him, telling him to stay on the path, but when the Lizardfolk suddenly fell to his knees and began to rummage around in a pile of foliage nearby, Gwyn stepped up and began to tromp over to stop him.

“You there!” she cried, “Stop! We got a groundskeeper keeps the place tidy. He don’t need…”

However, she stopped when she saw the lizardfolk with a small bundle in his claws. The lizard stared down at it with one eye and stared up at her with his other. Slowly, he undid the string holding the paper closed. Within, a medium-sized book sat in his hands, with a note pinned to it. Caliban stared at the note, before he sniffed it, closing his eyes.

“Cloudgazer…” he muttered.

“Cloudgazer?” Creon repeated.

“What’s it say?” asked Tiresius.

“It says… Give this book to the people at the gate. Shortbread,” said Caliban, before he turned and offered the book to the dwarf, “Here. Shortbread.”

“Who are you calling shortbread, scaleback?”

“The note says Shortbread, I do not know who called you that. Will you take the book?”

Gwyn frowned, before she snatched the book away and carried it with a huff back to Martinet. She pushed the book into his hands, and he inspected it once again with his magic and found, to his surprise, that it did not match any book already within the archive.

“That… will be acceptable,” said Martinet, “But… but how…?”

“Can we come in now?” demanded Creon, “Like I said, it’s urgent.”

“Do you all really know Cloudgazer?”

A silence passed between the quartet and the two acolytes, before Martinet, with serious expression, nodded his head and called up, “Let them in!”

Soon, the gate began to rise. Impatient, Creon pushed past, followed closely by Caliban, and then with Rosalind and Tiresius bringing up the rear. However, before he could pass them by, Martinet reached up to rest a hand on the gold dragonborn’s shoulder.

“Is Cloudgazer in danger, sir?” he asked.

Tiresius smiled. “Don’t worry. We’re here in time. I just know it.”

With that, the dragonborn walked on, and the two acolytes watched the four travelers enter the village, passing it by soon after and marching on towards the library itself.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a place of forbidden knowledge, an oath is broken.

They weren’t, strictly speaking, supposed to be in this section. Hotspur had expected the paladin to begin to make an inquiry with someone official to request a selection of books to peruse, and she was prepared to be bored out of her skull researching this or that. Instead, to her relief and delight, the paladin had simply pulled out a leather satchel full of familiar-looking tools and made a beeline to a thick door which stood locked on the fifth floor. Used to being a second pair of eyes while Pequod indulged in his more roguish tendencies, Hotspur knew to keep her eyes peeled and her mouth shut, first staring down one hall and then to the other. Soon, the paladin had forced the lock, and they were inside, wandering silently through this forbidden section of the library.

“So, what’s this book look like, anyway?” asked Hotspur, wandering through the stacks and peering around herself with a grimace on her face.

“Black. Chained down with silver,” said Vanya, “It is on a stand.”

“How do you know it’s in here?”

“I… asked around. This seemed like the most likely spot.”

The evasive answer didn’t sit well with Hotspur, but she was coming to realize that this whip-toting paladin was by no means typical of his vocation. Justice was one thing. Truth and light were not particularly his concern, she was coming to realize. Even so, she was used to helping out scoundrels like him, and from what she saw beneath that crypt, she couldn’t just let things lie.

As they turned a corner, Vanya perked his face up, almost as if he was sniffing the air, and he squinted his eyes. He tilted his head and closed his eyes, crouching low. Hotspur, following his lead, crouched as well, thankful she wasn’t wearing any of her noisy armor in here.

“What is it?” she whispered, but he shushed her harshly.

After a moment, Vanya’s eyes snapped open and he sneered, annoyed, before he began to rush through the stacks. Hotspur was taken off guard, and followed along, until she emerged from between two shelves and found, suddenly, a small alcove off to the side of the room where a table and chairs were set alongside a tall lecturn. On the lecturn, chained closed by silver, the black book sat. Nerves began to invade Hotspur’s stomach. It was just as Vanya had described it, but why was it chained closed? She remembered what Balthezar would sometimes tell them about the more dangerous books in Candlekeep’s collection. Books that would read you back, or books that bit.

“That’s it,” whispered Vanya, approaching, and he pulled out his lockpicks once again, looking around for something to pick.

Hotspur, however, reached out to grab the man’s shoulder, “Wait a second. It’s probably dangerous.”

“I know exactly how dangerous it is,” said Vanya, “But that is the book we need.”

“Even so, we should make sure there aren’t any…”

“Traps?” a crinkly old voice asked, and both of them turned quickly. The whip was already in Vanya’s hands and Hotspur, teeth clenched, put up her dukes, ready to fight off whoever had ambushed them with her fists if necessary.

Together, they saw Ms. Shortbread standing among the shelves, smile on her face, leaning heavily on her cane. She tilted her head as Hotspur relaxed, but Vanya did not put away his weapon.

“What are you doing here?” asked Vanya.

“Following you, of course,” she said, “I saw Hotspur go into your room, and thought you two lovebirds were getting to know one another. I see now you’re in on something.”

“It’s to do with the whole crypt thing,” said Hotspur, having no reason to doubt Ms. Shortbread as she turned back towards the book, “Apparently the answer is in this book.”

“Oh? And who says? Vanya?”

“I have my contact…”

“Is that who you were speaking to a moment before Hotspur came in to bring your lunch?” asked Ms. Shortbread, the smile on her face taking on a sinister curl.

“Talking…?” asked Hotspur, “How is that possible? I didn’t see anyone around your room when you… Say!”

Hotspur, intrigued by the mystery, suddenly realized what that meant a moment later and her eyes went wide in rage at Ms. Shortbread.

“Were you spying on me?” she cried.

“No, of course not,” she explained, “I was spying on him. He’s been acting strangely. Haven’t you noticed it?”

“What?”

At this, Vanya grumbled, narrowing his eyes. He seemed to flinch at something invisible and unknown, and shook his head slightly, but even that was enough that Hotspur noticed.

“Pencil-neck?” she asked, “Are you…?”

“Hotspur, dearie, stand between him and the book. Don’t let him touch it.”

Vanya began to roar, “You won’t stand between me and my family’s absolution. Neither of you.”

“Gods!” Hotspur cried in annoyance, eyes wide. Here she was without her armor and without a weapon. Thinking quickly, she rushed over to the table nearby and picked up one of the tall, wooden chairs, hoisting it up before rushing to stand between the paladin and his prize. Vanya, for his part, took his whip in his hands and seemed frozen to the spot.

“What’s in the book, dearie?” asked Ms. Shortbread, hand on the hilt of her hidden blade, “Maybe we can help.”

“I don’t know. I just…”

Ms. Shortbread began to walk forward, and Vanya tensed up. However, he did not strike, and she was soon face-to-face with him. Vanya’s expression was odd, as if there was someone screaming at him, and he was flinching at a raised voice in this completely silent library hall.

“What’s going on, Vanya?” she asked, “Who were you talking to in your room?”

Vanya froze to the spot, then, his mouth askew in a frown and his eyes squinting hard. Only Ms. Shortbread’s sharp eyes could see the whitening of the paladin’s knuckles as he tightened his grip on his whip ever so slightly.

“Hey! You three, what are you doing in here?” a voice from behind Ms. Shortbread demanded, and Hotspur was the only one to look, seeing a tall, elven man with long blonde hair and a high, imperious cheekbones. The man was wearing library robes and carrying a stack of books. He watched this stand-off with wide eyes.

The arrival of the librarian shattered the peace, then, and with a smooth movement, both Shortbread and Vanya brandished their weapons. Hotspur, realizing it would be a fight, gave an orcish battle cry – half to release her frustration and half to try to summon the help of someone she trusted more than either this shady little old lady or this deceptive paladin.

\--

Even though Balthezar knew he needed to sleep, it simply would not find him. He lay in the familiar cot in the familiar room with the familiar writing desk, and yet, he felt, oddly, that he was somewhere alien to him. He had been staying in the Eagleshield residence or else in random Inns on the road for two years now, and yet here on the wooden cot of his youth, he felt so profoundly alone and far away from home. Pequod and Puck were back in Waterdeep, Hotspur was off dealing with her own things, and Caliban was…

He tossed his blankets off himself and turned violently towards the wall of the cell, trying to smother the thought of his lost friend. His best friend. He raised his hands to his head and pressed them hard on either side of his head, covering his ears as he forced his eyes shut. He wished he could fall asleep by brute force alone, but after a moment, his clenched jaw began to ache, and he sighed deeply. Sleep wasn’t coming.

He finally sat up, admitting defeat and looked around the room. He was alone. That sweet halfling boy wanted to keep him up and talk about all of his adventures, but only Balthezar’s stony silence greeted him. Eventually the boy gave up and told the dragonborn he would have some dinner sent up when he was awake. Well, he was awake now, and only after about a couple hours.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he wondered what he was going to do. This pain, it was profound. He wanted to find somewhere to curl up and hide, but this was not that place. He wasn’t sure if a place just for him existed anymore. There were too many unfortunate memories surrounding Candlekeep. The bullying, the failures, the name Cloudgazer, and through it all, Master Tethil’s patient guidance, and how ultimately, he had never lived up to the potential his teacher had seen in him until that night when Deneir had blessed him. Even if he had power now, even if that name had become a symbol of his own triumphs, he still felt the sting.

A place to stay. He had that, he supposed. With the Eagleshields in their mansion in Waterdeep. He thought of Creon then, and how the silver dragonborn was alone in the world, wandering, trying to find something to cling on to, and had nowhere to truly call home anymore. He wished suddenly that Creon was there. He knew exactly what he would offer to Creon in that moment, and yet he knew he might never see Creon again. The thought caused his heart to drop down into his stomach and he swallowed hard to try to fight the tears.

A soft knock caused him to blink and stand up. His blurry vision caused him to blink as he looked around the room with squinting eyes until he found where he had put his spectacles and placed them on the bridge of his snout so that he could see before he called, “Yes? What is it?”

“It’s me,” said the voice of Master Tethil, and Balthezar clenched his jaw once again, “May I come in?”

“Master Tethil, of course!” said Balthezar, wiping his eyes quickly with his sleeves as he sat on the cot, “It isn’t locked. Come in!”

The elderly half-elf soon opened the door a crack, smiling in at the dragonborn before he opened it the rest of the way and gave a respectful little bow. Balthezar was astonished to see such a deferential gesture from his teacher and caretaker, but then remembered. Here, he was the chosen. He was a hero. Quickly, he answered back with a bow of his own, eager to keep parity between the two of them.

“What did you need, Master? Please sit.”

“I hope I haven’t interrupted your rest,” said Master Tethil, sitting in the chair near the writing desk.

“Of course not!” answered Balthezar, forcing himself to smile.

Master Tethil did not seem to altogether believe the young man, but still, he let it slide as he tucked his arms into his sleeves and thought deeply about his words. He the nodded his head, coming to a decision, and began to speak.

“I wished to speak to you,” he said, “About… about personal matters.”

“P-personal…?”

“Er… I…” Master Tethil began, and Balthezar was astonished. He had never seen his Master stammer when speaking. He was a gifted orator and a wonderful teacher, and to see him so embarrassed was not usual. “I was informed about… about the nature of your relationship with, er…”

“With…” began Balthezar. He knew that Master Tethil would know all about his odd arrangement with the lizardfolk from the letters he sent on but knew he wouldn’t have known about Creon, “With Creon Nastiar, yes.”

“Yes,” repeated Tethil, before he thought some more, “Are you… alright?”

“Me? I… I’m fine, certainly.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“W-well, I… I am. I have to be,” Balthezar snapped, looking away, “There isn’t time to mope. The orb is still out there and when you retrieve it…”

“Forget the orb!” Tethil snapped, “Forget the adventure for a moment. Focus on yourself.”

“M-my…”

At this, Tethil leaned forward and reached his hand down to touch his young ward gently on the leg. The sheer concern in the old man’s eyes caused Balthezar’s tears to begin to escape once again and he looked away and tried to wipe them back as discreetly as he could.

“This boy. This Creon person. Did you love him?”

“I… I had just met him. We’ve known one another… we knew one another for a week and half at most.”

“Still. It happened quickly when you met Caliban as well. I remember the tale well. I was worried about you then as well,” said Master Tethil, “You fall into love easily.”

“Do I…?”

Tethil laughed and nodded his head, “It’s something I had never realized about you growing up, but I suppose there was just no one for you here. Only one of your kind and all that.”

“I… I shouldn’t call it love. Not yet. Not… ever, now. If I call it love now, it will just mean more pain,” said Balthezar, resting a hand on the tip of his snout, “And losing Caliban as well. I know I loved him. It’s just… too…”

“I know. Yes,” said Master Tethil, “Losing someone, it is the worst feeling in the world.”

“How do I bear it?”

“I don’t know,” said Master Tethil, shrugging his shoulders and giving his ward’s knee a paternal squeeze, “I grew up here in Candlekeep as well, you know. I was cloistered here as a boy and never left. You know more of the world than I do now.”

“That can’t be true! You’re a Master Scribe! You know… gosh, so many things! You’ve read half the archive. Surely you penned most of the other half.”

“And yet,” Tethil said with a sigh, “I did all of this from within these four walls. The furthest I’ve ever gone is Baldur’s Gate, and even then I never visited longer than perhaps half a day on business. It has been a long hundred years. I… envy you your journey, truly, and I wish… I wish I had the experiences you had, so I would know how to teach you how to be happy again.”

“Master…” muttered Balthezar, his eyes widening. He breathed in, grief making his intake ragged, and he leaned forward, falling to his knees and throwing his arms around his former teacher and surrogate father in a fierce hug around the waist. It was then that he finally allowed his emotions to get the better of him. He could no longer hold back to torrent of tears, soaking the front of Master Tethil’s robe. The old man, for his part, held a grim face as he reached up and stroked the back of Balthezar’s scaly head, as he used to when the boy would skin his knee playing, or come to his office after having been bullied by the other children. Balthezar, now called, proudly, Balthezar Cloudgazer, had grown strong in the time he had been gone, but within, he was still the same sensitive boy he had been all those years ago.

Their moment was broken when a knock on the door sounded, and the voice of Brutus Wheelbarrow said, “Master Tethil! There’s a commotion up on the fifth floor!”

“Can it wait, Brutus?” Master Tethil said, with a warning in his tone.

“Master… it’s those adventurers the chosen brought with him,” said Brutus, “They were found sneaking around one of the forbidden sections!”

Balthezar immediately straightened up, blinking the tears away as he heard this. The Forbidden section. Dangerous knowledge was stored there under lock and key, only accessible by the most trusted of scribes.

“Wh-who?” asked Balthezar, “Which ones went up there?”

“O-oh! Uh…” The voice answered, “Lady Eagleshield, and the old woman and the paladin. They bolted when they were caught and they seemed like they were, uh, fighting each other. I don’t know what’s going on, sirs. Please, just come!”

With that, Balthezar looked up into the face of his master, and Tethil looked back. A charge of pride ran between them. The library was in danger. They didn’t know how, but it must have had something to do with the latent power of the orb somehow. Balthezar stood, adjusting his glasses and wiping his eyes, and Master Tethil soon followed, and the two of them rushed out the door to find out what on Toril was going on.

\--

The doors into the forbidden section blew open, slamming the doorknobs hard against the walls as Ms. Shortbread, grunting harshly, was thrown through them. She cried out as she landed on her hip and rolled nimbly, before she, with uncommon dexterity, leapt to her feet and brandished her sword once again. She was astonished to find that she wasn’t doing so well against Vanya Greylash. She had been struck once already by one of those whip cracks filled with divine fury. She noted the sizable, sizzling hole in her bodice with annoyance, exposing the leather armor she always wore hidden underneath. She would not be able to take a hit like that again.

As Vanya walked slowly from the hall, his eyes were growing darker and more menacing. Ms. Shortbread couldn’t help but feel a thrill of fear in her stomach. This was a paladin of Tyr. She never would have expected to have to fight one that should have been on the side of justice, and yet, here she was. She looked around. The hallway was bereft of any furniture or other hiding places. Only one place to hide, and she couldn’t go there with him watching her. She couldn’t hide. She might be able to run, but that would leave Hotspur unarmed and unarmored at the mercy of the mad paladin.

All of a sudden, an orcish cry rose up over the silence and Hotspur appeared behind Vanya, chair held aloft. She tried to bring it down over Vanya’s head, but he was too nimble himself, dodging quickly out of the way before she could strike him. The force of the blow against the ground caused the chair to shatter loudly, and soon all Hotspur held in her hands were a pair of jagged chair legs.

“Damn it!” she cried, “Vanya! Stop this! Just tell us what’s going on!”

Vanya did not answer. He knew it was beyond talking. His eyes darted to Hotspur, but he realized his mistake a moment later as he moved back to keep an eye on Shortbread. He growled as the woman seemed to vanish in thin air.

Dropping one of the legs and wielding the last one in both hands like a club, Hotspur gave a growl herself, insisting, “You realize I want to help you, right, you idiot? I want to help you put your sister to rest! I want to help you!”

_Don’t listen to her. She will destroy me, and there will be no way to bring Emma back._

Vanya knew better than to listen to the voice, but still, it seemed to make so much sense. If Hotspur found out, it would only be a matter of time before Balthezar found out, and he would insist on the orb’s destruction out of sheer revenge. That couldn’t be allowed.

Knowing that the half-orc was tough and that she could take the punishment, Vanya’s eyes flashed as he snapped his whip towards her suddenly. Not the dexterous type, and with no armor to turn the blow, she felt the sting of Vanya’s lash across her chest, and a half second later felt the outpouring of divine energy suffusing her skin. She screamed as her green flesh boiled under her shirt, but she soon clenched her jaw in rage and stared at the paladin with wide eyes as he turned to rush away. Once again, she tried to smack him with the chair leg, but the improvised weapon was too slow.

However, as Vanya rushed away, he just barely felt something, just a slight tug, and the feel of quick fingers, and he turned, eyes wide, to find Ms. Shortbread, hidden behind the doors, with Caliban’s coinpurse in her hand, in which the orb was stashed.

“No!” he screamed, turning to stand her ground against her.

“Hotspur! Catch!” she cried, tossing the purse towards Hotspur. She caught it in one hand and stepped back, before peeking inside.

“What is this?” asked Hotspur, “How do you have this?”

Vanya only answered with a scream, driven to a sudden, unbidden rage by the sight of the woman holding his precious treasure. His eyes bugged out of his head, and he held his whip aloft, before it became wreathed not only with holy light, but with fire! Hotspur’s eyes went wide as she flinched back, but it was not enough. The whip crack immolated her clothing immediately, and she grunted in pain, dropping both the orb and her improvised weapon as she patted her clothing out. A spark also jumped from her to land among the books, and soon the dry parchment began to catch. Hotspur, barely standing, hunched over. She seemed exhausted, as if she should have fallen right then and there but nevertheless held a look of sheer orcish defiance as she sneered in Vanya’s direction. The blow would have felled a lesser man or woman, but Hotspur was her father’s daughter, and she refused to fall.

She breathed in and out slowly as the two of them stared at the orb which had rolled to a stop on the ground between them. It was glowing with some unknown power as it seemed to be siphoning its energy into Vanya, causing his whip to catch flame, and Hotspur knew she had to get it away from the paladin. It had taken him over completely! Within, she centered herself, feeling the energy well up within as she united the two halves of her heritage, the poise of nobility and the savagery of the orc, and prepared to lunge forward. Soon the two of them leaped for the orb.

Vanya arrived first but realized too late that Hotspur was not aiming for the orb. She passed it right by and instead lashed out with a meaty fist, smacking the Paladin square in the jaw. With her massive strength behind the blow, Vanya was pushed back, away from the orb, and fell on his backside, more dazed than hurt. That was when Ms. Shortbread, picking her moment carefully, lashed out with the tip of her sword and pierced into the side of Vanya’s light armor while he was distracted. A sharp pain lanced through the paladin, but he stayed awake and began to scramble to his feet.

“What is going on he – Gods! The books!” screamed Master Tethil as he arrived to find the forbidden hall ablaze. Immediately, the half elf ignored the fight, rushing ahead to begin weaving magic to undo the damage done to the books, snuffing out all the fire he could see using his own magical prowess. Balthezar, standing by him, stared at the scuffle with wide eyes.

“What happened? Hotspur?”

“Vanya’s nuts! He kept the orb. He’s under its control.”

“Th-the orb? The orb is here?” asked Balthezar, looking around, “Where?”

“Right…” began Hotspur, pointing it out, but found that it was gone. She clenched her jaw. Vanya was still squared off against her. Where was it?

“I… Need… that power,” Vanya muttered, before he closed his eyes and concentrated. He knew with Balthezar here, he could not survive for long. He needed an edge. With a glow of divine energy, Balthezar recognized the signs of temporal magic suddenly coming over him as he began to move with an unnatural speed.

“Paladins can’t…” began Balthezar, before realizing there were more important matters. Before Balthezar could try to speak to Vanya, he rushed away, faster than the eye could see.

“He’s not going to stay away long,” muttered Ms. Shortbread, allowing herself to breathe hard and lean on her cane in earnest, “Hotspur, where did you hide the orb?”

“Me? I don’t have it! I just kept him from getting it!”

“Will someone please explain what’s going on?” demanded Balthezar, “How is the orb here. What is this?”

“Vanya… Vanya must have grabbed it!” cried Hotspur, before she picked the chair leg back up and began to run after Vanya, “Come on, Balthezar, I’ll explain on the way.”

Balthezar wanted to stay with Master Tethil and help with the books, but he knew this was important, and so he cried out, “Master! Do you have things in hand here?”

Master Tethil answered, “Go. I have it under control.”

With a nod, the green dragonborn placed a hand on his holy symbol and rushed on after Vanya. The Paladin had a massive head start, but the dragonborn knew these halls intimately. They could catch him, if they left right now.

\--

Vanya felt as if he was floating outside of his body, watching himself take actions without meaning to. The desperation in his stomach to regain the orb seared through him like a hot brand, and his mind, accelerated by his magic, raced to try to figure out how to get it back. The book and the orb were both needed to save his sister, he knew this, and yet Hotspur, Ms. Shortbread, and the cleric were standing in his way. They stood in the path of justice. They must be punished.

_Punish them,_ he heard whispered into his ear, although the voice seemed distant.

In that moment, the magic of the orb seemed to crack slightly, and Vanya could feel his will return for just an instant. His teeth gnashed together as he realized all of a sudden that he had been under the influence of the orb. He had not been careful. Then, just as he stopped and turned, intending to throw down his weapon and surrender, his body went rigid and froze once again, and the fire returned, searing his insides.

_PUNISH THEM._

The voice was deafening, and despite the distant echo, he felt the grip on his whip strengthen. It shouldn’t have been possible. His will was stronger than this, surely!

_Fool,_ the orb said, with a chuckle in his ear, _You cannot resist my power._

Vanya was screaming, trying to wrench control of his body away from the alien power which had overtaken it, and yet he could not move even a finger. He was trapped in his own body, paralyzed by the power of the orb. He realized the orb’s true power in that moment, and even his own will, and the divine protections afforded to him by the strength of his oath were not enough to stand up to it. It wasn’t a matter of the orb’s will overwhelming his own, nor was it a matter of his own will being weak. It was a slow drip, drip, drip of suggestions, constantly given to him over his time with the orb, laced with magic. The drip became a torrent, and even his own divine power couldn’t hope to stand against the flood of evil energy that forced him to betray his oath.

He saw his doom around the corner, and he realized what the orb was making him do. He would fight here to the death against Hotspur, Shortbread, and Balthezar, three deadly foes. Without the paladin there would be one fewer obstacle standing in the orb’s path. He tried to call out, to warn the three of them, but instead, he lifted his whip and, in an instant, had traveled the length of the hall in order to attack.

“No!” screamed Balthezar, knowing that his two companions were greatly injured by the paladin’s earlier assault. He stepped in front and found a series of painful lashes across his body. He cried out as the radiant energy suffused him, but he bore the pain.

“Balthezar!” cried Hotspur, still brandishing the leg of that chair.

“Don’t worry about me,” cried the dragonborn, breathing hard, before he reached up to grab the makeshift club in Hotspur’s hand. He muttered an incantation, ignoring the wild paladin, and Hotspur was astonished to find that the chair leg glowed with a supernatural light, familiar to her as an enchantment to guide her strikes, “Get him.”

With that, Balthezar turned back towards the paladin and waved a hand in front of his face. His own bolt of radiant fire launched from his holy symbol in that moment, forcing Vanya to dodge to one side, but that was all the opening Hotspur needed. She rushed ahead, with the chair leg in both hands, and she struck, centering herself once again, before giving a short, sharp cry.

To Vanya’s surprise, despite feeling as if he had ducked out of the way, he felt the wood impact with the side of his face and felt a more intense pain than he expected from the improvised weapon. He stumbled backwards and tried to recover but felt another strike from the enchanted weapon. In that moment, Ms. Shortbread took advantage of the moment and slipped her sword once again between the small openings in the paladin’s armor.

With the searing pain, Vanya thought he was going to die. He could feel the sword deep inside of his body, piercing him down to the core, and thought that he was about to pass out from the sheer pain. He welcomed it, knowing that if he fell here, Balthezar would never let him die. He could be restrained, and explain himself, and that would lead to the destruction of the orb once and for all. However, as he felt consciousness leaving him, he heard that terrible voice once again whisper into his ear.

_You fall when I say you fall, thrall!_ Said the voice.

His eyes opened, suddenly and painfully wide awake as the fire intensified, seemingly cauterizing the wound shut as Ms. Shortbread withdrew the sword. There was relief on the faces of the three combatants in the brief moment when they thought they had won, and then surprise as Vanya stayed standing.

It happened so quickly that none could react. Still affected by the haste spell, Vanya moved with unnatural speed and, in two strikes, laid the last of his divine power into Ms. Shortbread and Hotspur in quick succession. The old woman cried out weakly as she crumpled to the floor in a shower of radiant sparks from the tip of the whip, and Hotspur, her skin seared from the light, attempted to stay standing once again but found the reserves of her energy sapped. She fell to her knees, dropping the chair leg on the floor, before she lost consciousness. Before Balthezar could react, then, Vanya reached up with his other hand and, to the dragonborn’s horror, laid a hand on his own chest and concentrated. The man’s wounds began to close as divine healing suffused his body, and all in six seconds of furious combat, the situation had reversed completely.

Balthezar’s mind raced for what to do, what spell to cast to fend off this madman, and he raised his arms to begin to cast. As he did, Vanya approached closer, and prepared to strike out.

All of a sudden, a bolt of fire struck into the small of Vanya’s back, and he stumbled. Then two bolts of stark, white energy blasted into him. He turned, looking over his shoulder, and Balthezar followed the path of the two attacks, his eyes widening to try to see the forms of his saviors. Balthezar suddenly heard music, triumphant and even.

The four of them stood at the end of the hall, side by side. Rosalind sat on the shoulder of the Lizardfolk, while Tiresius and Creon were on either side, the gold’s hand raised, and the silver’s hands balled into fists. Balthezar couldn’t believe it. He thought he must have been dreaming, to see both Caliban and Creon here, as well as Mr. Tiresius and the halfling warlock. When Caliban and Creon both as one began to rush forward, however, he knew it was so.

Caliban struck out first, teeth bared, he hissed and screeched in a rage at seeing the man with the whip attacking his Cloudgazer, and he leaped forward, snapping once at him, but only catching him with the second bite, sinking his teeth into the man’s weapon-arm. Creon, unarmed, saw the only weapon available to him on the ground, the glowing chair leg, and made a run to grab it. He dove to the ground underneath the swipe of the paladin’s whip, and rolled along the stone floor, leaping soon to his feet between the aggressor and Balthezar Cloudgazer, the weapon in his hand suffused with the cleric’s essence.

“Are you hurt?” asked Creon.

“Creon… Caliban…” muttered Balthezar, unable to believe what he was seeing, “How…?”

“Your quick thinkin’ saved me,” said Creon, his face softening just slightly from a harsh frown to a softer glance in Balthezar’s direction, “We’ll talk later. For now, fight.”

“R-right!”

It was Balthezar’s turn, realizing they had the advantage now, but knowing also that the paladin likely had more tricks up his sleeve, the cleric raised his hands and began to chant in a slow, low rhythm, harmonizing his voice to the song which was blaring triumphantly in his ears. The words seemed to ease all who called Balthezar friend, and the most egregious of Hotspur and Ms. Shortbread’s wounds closed up as they both blinked their eyes and groaned in pain as they awoke.

“Wh-what…?”

“No time to explain!” cried Balthezar, before pointing towards the paladin, “Press the advantage! Now!”

Hotspur snapped, “Don’t tell me what to do,” but she was already on her feet and lurching towards the paladin. Without a weapon still, she simply ran forward and tried to tackle the man to the ground. Vanya dodged once out of the way, but she managed to grab him around the waist on her second go around, locking him in place.

Ms. Shortbread, not wasting any time, called out a hail to Rosalind, “Aim for the center mass, dearie! I’ll give you a nice spot to aim,” before she stabbed out at the paladin once again and then stepped away.

The bright red trail of blood gave Rosalind a clear spot to aim for, and she took the shot, firing bolts of eldritch energy into the paladin. Not to be outdone, the spectral head of a black dragon suddenly rose from the floor and bit down on Vanya’s leg, causing him to cry out, before three more bites from Caliban sank into either shoulder.

Still standing against all odds, Vanya tried once again to brandish his whip, but found that he could not. He was trapped, surrounded, and as much as he wanted to surrender, he knew his body would not rest until either they were dead or he was. He turned his eyes towards Caliban, the paladin’s blood dripping from his jaws, and a moment of understanding suddenly ran between them. Caliban felt the presence of the creature within Vanya, and Vanya felt the same within Caliban.

The lizardfolk turned towards Creon and said, simply, “Do not kill.”

Creon was silent at this, and his eyes narrowed, but he followed the lizardfolk’s advice. He launched himself into the fray with the enchanted chair leg in tow, and laid into Vanya with two massive strikes, sinking his grand strength into two mighty blows on either side of the Paladin’s face. The last thing Vanya felt was a pain in his jaw as he felt bones crack, before everything went dark, and he went limp in Hotspur’s arms.


	15. Chapter 15

In the silence of the aftermath of the battle, there seemed to be a collective exhale from all gathered. Vanya’s head lolled backwards as Hotspur held him. Slowly, she gently rested him on the ground and stepped away, turning first to Balthezar, and then, with slow realization, to where Balthezar was staring, at Caliban and Creon.

“You’re…” began Balthezar, eyes wide and hands clasped together, “You’re alive.”

He turned first towards Caliban, beginning to walk forward with arms extended to embrace his friend, but the lizardfolk drew back, baring his teeth. Balthezar flinched, still remembering that night of terror when Caliban had attacked him.

“Do not… come close…” said Caliban, slowly, blinking his eyes as both eyes focused on his Cloudgazer, “I am… not safe.”

“Caliban?”

Creon spoke up, “He still feels a connection to the orb. It’s not over until its destroyed.”

“Someone mind telling me what’s going on here?” asked Hotspur, “I thought you two were… Oh Gods! Caliban, you’re alive!”

Overcome all at once, Hotspur, with the most tender expression any of them had ever seen on the woman, rushed forward to snatch Caliban up in a tight hug. Caliban tried to repeat himself, saying he was not safe, but the half-orc would not be deterred. Eventually, Caliban leaned into the hug, wishing he could have accepted it from Cloudgazer.

As Balthezar watched this, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Creon smiling at him.

“My Death Ward…” muttered Balthezar, “It worked?”

“Yeah. You saved my life.”

“And Caliban?”

“The orb doesn’t let you die until it’s done with you. Same kind of magic, I think.”

“Except pure evil,” Balthezar snapped, snarling, “The orb. Where is it? Does Vanya have it on him?”

At that, Creon nodded his head and knelt to pat the man down. He pulled pouches and coinpurses from within his armor but narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw when he found no trace of the orb.

“Nothing.”

“It was there, and then it was gone. I thought…” began Hotspur.

“If its out there, we have to find it,” said Ms. Shortbread, already hobbling back towards the forbidden section, her tottering movements just a little bit more genuine after that tough battle.

“But…”

“I feel it,” muttered Caliban, pulling away from Hotspur as he began to follow Ms. Shortbread, “Kill…”

Silently, one by one, each of them made up their minds to follow Ms. Shortbread and Caliban. Balthezar and Rosalind, as they walked on, did their best to heal the worst of Ms. Shortbread and Hotspur’s wounds, sensing that there would be another fight soon. It was Balthezar’s turn to take the initiative, however, and he rushed forward ahead of the group, the words of a spell on his lips. Creon felt the magic leave the chair leg in his hand as Balthezar’s spell wore off, and he tossed it aside. It wouldn’t be that useful as a weapon beyond that. Soon, Balthezar began to reach out back towards the forbidden hall.

“It’s still there, but… it’s moving. Moving through the hall,” said Balthezar, eyes closed as his senses reached out for it. He opened his eyes in realization, “Someone has it.”

“Someone?” asked Tiresius, sounding worried.

“Oh no…” Ms. Shortbread said, realizing at once what that might mean. She locked eyes with Balthezar in that moment, and all at once, Balthezar realized the meaning as well.

“Master Tethil…” he muttered, eyes wide, and he bolted down the hall.

“Cloudgazer!” cried Creon, before he too rushed ahead after the green dragonborn, “Wait!”

Followed closely by the rest, they moved as a group away from Vanya’s unconscious body and towards the forbidden hall of the library, where they knew that black book was still sitting, waiting to fall into the clutches of the orb.

\--

As the group arrived, they smelled burning paper. Balthezar, unable to contain himself, was the first to enter, and heard a voice chanting as he began to navigate the unfamiliar shelves of one of Candlekeep's repositories of secretive knowledge. The voice was familiar in tone and accent, and Balthezar recognized it at once as the Master Scribe in the middle of some kind of ritual.

“Master Tethil!” cried Balthezar as he and Creon barged through the shelves, followed not long after by the rest of the group.

Soon, the green and silver dragonborns emerged and saw Master Tethil standing at the lecturn. The silver chains around the book had been unlocked and cast aside on the floor, and the book stood open. In answer to the voice of the young student of Candlekeep, the chanting of the ritual came to a stop, and they both saw the kindly face of the half-elven man smiling back at them.

“Balthezar,” he said, “And your friends. How wonderful of you to join me.”

Nerves came over Balthezar’s face immediately as he asked, “Master. That book… why…?”

“It’s a fascinating read. Can’t put it down, in fact,” said the man, as he turned back to the black book and picked the thick tome up in his arms, cradling it like a child as he read from it, “I don’t know why I didn’t read it sooner.”

“Put the book down, Master, please! The orb. You didn’t…”

“What?” asked Master Tethil, his voice seeming hollow and distant, as he turned to regard the orb, sitting on a reading desk nearby, “This? Yes. The voice was… quite persuasive. I fought back, of course but the more I read of this book…”

“Cloudgazer…” muttered Creon as he began to take cover behind the shelves, “You gotta get back. That ain’t your master anymore.”

“Master Tethil, please,” Balthezar barreled on, rejecting Creon’s words immediately, “What is that book?”

“Would you like to read it…?” asked Master Tethil, eagerly offering it forward. Balthezar knew better than to allow himself to read even a single word off of that page and looked away at once. “Please. It is… ever so illuminating. I wish to share this knowledge with you. We have shared so much already, teacher to student.”

“M-master, please. You have to let me help you. You’ve been cursed. I… I can remove it, but you have to let me. You have to allow me to get close.”

Balthezar could hear his friends begin to approach, and he quickly waved his hands to get them to back off. He knew exactly how powerful a mage Master Tethil was. If this man had turned, they were in far more danger than a mere mad paladin.

“N… no… I don’t… I don’t think I will,” said Tethil, slowly, as he transferred the weight of the book to one arm and laid a hand on the page, with his eyes always on the green dragonborn, “If you will not join us willingly, then I will make you join us.”

All at once, Tethil’s hands flashed as the magic passed between his fingers and the book, intensifying the spell. Balthezar’s eyes went wide. A bolt of energy was screaming right towards him, lightning, powerful enough to obliterate him in his weakened state from the fight with Vanya. He closed his eyes and flinched back.

… and blinked them open when he found no pain. He looked back towards Master Tethil and saw, suspended in the air, the bolt of lightning that was meant for him, frozen. The green dragonborn looked back and saw Tiresius standing, arms raised, and gold cheeks flushed a pale rose color from the exertion of attempting to unravel the energy of such a powerful spell. The gold dragonborn breathed in, his hands straining as he took the strings of magic in his fists and, with a massive, inhuman roar which was far more draconic than any other noise the kindly old man had ever made, he tore the energy asunder and the bolt evaporated in a flash of light.

“Ah-hah. I’ve been told of you. Demigod. The Tyrantborn,” said Master Tethil with almost reverence, “You are here. In this book. Your destiny lies in these pages. Shall I…?”

“Destiny can keep company with my grandmother in hell,” Tiresius barked, “Creon! Now!”

All at once, from out of the shelves, a flock of some kind of flying creatures erupted, scattering loose paper and embers from the fire all over. Balthezar wondered for a moment who had let in so many birds, but soon realized what they were. Books! The books themselves had animated and were flocking towards Master Tethil. The old man’s eyes went wide as he raised an arm to protect his face as the hard spines of the books began to bash against him. None of them did much damage on its own, but all together, they kept him busy enough that Creon felt confident rushing out into the open. He raised his hand, and Balthezar could hear under the dragonborn’s breath the song he was using to entice the objects into animating for him. With a violent thrust, the books attacked as one, and Master Tethil screamed out.

“Fools! You know not our power!”

“And you know not mine, creature!” Screamed Balthezar all of a sudden, “Get out of my Master’s skin, whatever you are!”

With that, the cleric raised his hands to his holy symbol and began a song of his own. In answer, as if appearing from the walls themselves it seemed as if the spirits of the library itself emerged from Candlekeep, answering Balthezar’s call. He stepped forward, letting the radiant aura of the spectral librarians cook his former master. Master Tethil squinted his eyes against the radiance, but merely laughed, before he raised his own hand to rend the weave itself asunder rather than allow Balthezar’s spell to go through.

“Not so fast!” a tiny voice cried out as Rosalind emerged and waved her own hand. As if she had slapped his wrist hard, Master Tethil’s own hand was knocked away, his counter spell itself countered, and a moment later he felt the searing light of Balthezar’s spell on his flesh. “Evil book, huh? That seems like it’s in my wheelhouse!”

“Good work, Roz,” cried Creon, looking around for a weapon. A moment later, Hotspur arrived and offered something forward.

“Found a fireplace nearby. Maybe this will work,” she said, smile bright, as she offered an iron poker to the dragonborn. In her own hand she held a coal shovel. With nothing else to use, they both took up their improvised weapons and squared off against this mage.

“Mortals! You will feel the wrath of my master! You will feel the fire upon you when he…!”

His speech was cut short when a crossbow bolt stuck in his arm, courtesy of Ms. Shortbread. He screamed out, dropping the book to the floor. As if tethered to him, however, a stream of dark energy seemed to be flowing from the man to the book on the floor.

“It’s… draining him,” Balthezar cried out, suddenly, “The book! We have to get the book away!”

“It’s too late, Student,” said the creature within Master Tethil’s skin, “This vessel tastes so sweet, and soon, I will be free and will attain my true form. All thanks to you and your friends, yes?”

Caliban screeched then, leaping from high up on the shelves as he dove for the mage. He completely bowled the man over, rolling on the floor with him and opened his mouth wide in rage and pain. In his stomach he felt the fire, but he was in control of himself, and he used the pain to fuel his rage as he sank his teeth into the wizard’s shoulder. The wizard only laughed.

“Useless!” screamed Tethil as he raised a hand, and an icy chill whipped through the room.

“Look out!” Cried Balthezar, but it was too late to warn anyone. Still recovering from their own tearing apart of the weave, Tiresius and Rosalind could do nothing but stand and watch as a cone of bone-chilling ice lanced forward from the mage’s hands. Everyone in the room covered their eyes, and soon, the entire room was entombed in solid blocks of frozen air. Pain tore through everyone. The flying books were blown apart and shattered.

There was a tense moment of deathly silence as the roar of the magic died away. Creon blinked his eyes, managing to open them despite the frost gluing his eyelids shut for a moment. He realized he was still alive, and he turned to see that Tiresius had also been able to withstand the storm, just barely. The rest of their friends were not so lucky. Shivering, shaken, and aching, the two dragonborn looked around and saw surrounding them frozen, immobilized statues of their compatriots. It was only the ice in Creon’s blood and the fire in Tiresius’ veins that allowed them to escape being completely encased in ice.

“C-Cloudgazer…” muttered Creon, eyes wide, “Caliban!”

Both were still, frozen to the spot, Balthezar with arms up and eyes closed, icicles hanging from the back of his head where the power had blown him back. Caliban was crouched over the mage, mouth open in mid-bite, the inside of his mouth frozen open.

A sinister laugh cut through the deadly silence of the grave of icy statues. Master Tethil climbed out from underneath Caliban and picked the book back up, smiling down at it, and then down at the lizardfolk. With a truly evil smile upon his bearded face, his eyes went wide, and he raised the book, intending to smash the frozen lizard to pieces.

“No!” screamed Creon then as he leaped forward. The iron poker in his hand burned to the touch from the drop in temperature, but Creon didn’t care. He tossed it up into the air, distracting the mage for a moment before he crouched, caught it once again and turned around with a graceful turn, before striking out right for the mage’s face.

Just as he was trained, first by the lance defenders and then with the circus, Creon attacked with a flourish, and found the perfect place to strike. The mage was mid laugh as he felt the impact with the side of his head, and slowly, his face fell in annoyance. The hooked tip of the poker had pierced through the side of Master Tethil’s skull, a blow that would kill a lesser man, but to the creature within the half-elven scholar, it seemed nothing more than a nuisance.

“I will return…” he growled, “You cannot stop m…”

Creon gave the man no quarter, not allowing him to finish his speech. He pulled the poker from the side of his face hard and laid a harsh kick into the wizard. The book once again fell from his hands, the link between them seemingly severed. Slowly, Tethil, his eyes glazing over, sank to his knees, and then forward onto his stomach. Suddenly, the book itself seemed to flutter closed just as Rosalind’s had done, and soon it was sitting on the floor as any other book might.

Creon, breathing hard, turned back to find that Tiresius was already in the middle of a moment of concentration. He opened his eyes and Creon saw with some alarm that the gold dragonborn had naught but pools of deep black within his sockets, and that red, veiny scales were invading the edges of his gold-colored ones. Creon raised his poker once again, wondering if he might have to put the old man down after all. This was it, he thought. The moment of truth. Killing the old man would solve everything for him.

However, the moment of hesitation proved wise. Tiresius called out, suddenly, and all at once, a healing light was cast forth from his body. As it washed over Creon, he felt his shiver subside and his muscles ache less. As it washed over the others, the thin layer of ice over their bodies began to crumble, and soon, the entire party was standing, soaking wet from rapidly melting ice, in the middle of a library, shivering, but alive against all odds.

Creon wasted no time in rushing forward and peeling the layers of ice from the warm, breathing body of Balthezar Cloudgazer. His eyes were wide and his breathing ragged, and as soon as the two of them locked eyes, a moment of intense feeling ran between them. Creon reached around the green dragonborn, crushing him to himself in an embrace, and Balthezar, unsure of what had even happened, reached up with his snout to nuzzle up against Creon’s neck.

“Cloud… gazer…” Caliban said suddenly, and both dragonborn turned to see Caliban beginning to thaw as well. Balthezar cried out the lizardfolk’s name as he and Creon both rushed ahead to help him up. As soon as the lizardfolk saw his rescuers, both Creon and Balthezar, he looked from one to the other and then looked at each one with an eye. He drew close to Balthezar first, giving the green a long lick up the side of the snout, before he turned towards Creon. To the silver’s surprise, Caliban leaned up and did the same for him, giving Creon a long, intimate lick up the side of his neck and face. Astonished as he was, Creon let it happen, and couldn’t help but wonder exactly what kind of three-way relationship he was getting himself into.

All of a sudden, Balthezar realized something and looked around.

“Master Tethil…?”

He soon saw the half-elf lying on the floor and rushed up to try to help. He knelt down to check on the old man, but found that he was too late. The old man lay on the floor, dead. Balthezar, thinking quickly, reached down into his pockets but found that he had not carried his components with him. He had no diamonds, and therefore there was nothing he could do for the old man. His shoulders slumped, and tears began to run down his face. Two sets of hands rested themselves on him, one taking his shoulders and the other crushing his hand in its grip, and he saw Caliban and Creon both sitting by him staring at Master Tethil with solemnity. Balthezar seemed to go limp in that moment, sobbing in grief, squeezing Caliban’s hand right back and leaning his face against Creon’s filthy uniform.

“Alright lovebirds,” Hotspur gasped, sore and leaning on the coal shovel for support as she pointed one shivering thumb in the direction of the orb, “We still got that thing to deal with. What do we do?”

“Destroy it,” said Tiresius.

“Gladly,” Ms. Shortbread said, shaking out her damp hair, “But how do we do that?”

“Easy…” muttered Tiresius as he strode forward and, before anyone could stop him, grabbed the orb in his bare hands.

Immediately, the long, hanging moustache and scales at his back were blown back by an invisible power as the soul of a demigod suddenly clashed with the corruptive power of this draconic essence. Tiresius bore his fangs, eyes wide, and he blinked once, once again revealing pools of black. Balthezar called out the man’s name, standing up, but Creon snatched the librarian’s hand up and did not allow him to approach.

“He’s killing himself! Creon we can’t…”

“He won’t die,” said Creon, calmly, turning to watch as Tiresius’ eyes blinked once again, turning back to their normal shade, as grey as a clouded sky, “Watch. He’s lived this long, and he ain’t looking to die yet. Watch!”

Tiresius then blinked again and the wind whipping around him seemed to calm, and suddenly his eyes began to shine pure, clean white. In a five-fold voice that was at once his own and at the same time someone else’s, Tiresius began to speak, calmly, and slowly, reaching up with his other hand to caress the surface of the orb gently, like a father comforting his child.

 **IT’S OVER, SON,** said Tiresius, in a voice of godly power, **SLEEP NOW. YOU’VE HELD OFF DEATH TOO LONG. IT’LL ALL BE OVER SOON.**

Caliban perked up then as he heard the last vestiges of the voice within his head. No one else heard it plea for its life, to try to beseech the deathbringer for its own continued existence. Caliban could feel the fear, the shame, and the rage within himself, and knew those feelings did not belong to him. Even so, he paid attention to them, able to analyze them as if he was an outside observer. Soon, the begging intensified as Tiresius raised the hand holding the orb and gathered the power within himself. A scream lanced through Caliban’s soul as the orb began to glow bright green, before crumbling to dust and falling between the dragonborn’s fingers like fine sand. Soon, there was nothing left, and Caliban heard nothing more. As if there was a pressure gone from his soul, he felt as if he could breathe again, and he clutched hard to Balthezar, the perverse urges to feed on his living flesh and to claim him jealously as his and his alone leaving him all at once. He breathed out and squeezed the green dragonborn’s hand. Love, or at least the corrupt love given to him by the orb, left him, and he bid the feeling farewell gladly. He was content that only the knowledge remained that Cloudgazer was good.

Tiresius tipped the dust from his hand onto the floor, and, soon, the glow if his eyes faded. He found himself suddenly breathing hard, and the red around his eyes and fingers faded back to gold. He fell to his knees, exhausted to his very soul, and could not help but reach his arms to the floor to support himself.

“Need a little help?” asked a voice above him. Tiresius peeked up and saw Creon was the first to offer the gold dragonborn his hand in help.

Tiresius smiled, and quipped, “I’m weakened. You could end me right now. Take my head back to Tymanther.”

“But I don’t want to,” Creon muttered, so quiet that none could hear but the gold, “That’s… not who I want to be. Not anymore.”

Tiresius stared up at him, his smile fading, before he breathed in once again and reached up to take the silver’s hand in his own. He stood, unsteady on his shaking legs, and regarded the rest of the group. Everyone was battered, bloodied, and half-dead, but they were all alive, and smiling with triumph. All except Balthezar, who stared down at Master Tethil’s body with a mute numbness.

Tiresius was about to say something to try to bring the young man around when all of a sudden, there was a massive quake which rocked the entire building. Everyone stumbled, and Tiresius had to hold fast on to Creon’s solid frame to stay on his feet.

“What was that?” cried Rosalind, “I thought it was over!”

Screams could be heard outside, and, as is the way with people used to adventure, everyone in the room took stock of themselves, looked to one another, and began to ready their bodies and souls for battle once again. As one, they rushed from the stacks, and out into the hall, and found that the library had erupted in chaos.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The power of the Tyrantborn.

As they passed by windows facing out to the west, they could see it. It was absolutely massive, a creature of bone and half-formed sinew flew on wings of tattered flesh, as its gaunt skull opened its mouth in a rattling, near-silent roar. The dragon, or at least the remains of a dragon, were animated as if on their own, and it was tearing into the side of the fortress with its claws, causing the entire building to lurch and shake as wizards and clerics rained fire and radiant light down upon it, trying to defend the archive.

“What in the world?” cried Ms. Shortbread.

“It has to be connected. What is it trying to do?” demanded Rosalind.

As they ran down the hall trying to find a way up to the roof to find a better vantage on the monster, Vanya suddenly lurched into view around a corner, holding his side where there was still a thin stream of blood flowing from him.

“That’s his body,” said Vanya, “He told me his plan. I… I had no choice but to help him.”

“Vanya…” muttered Hotspur, rushing forward to get a shoulder under the human’s arm to help, although both of them stood on shaky legs, “What do you mean? What’s happening?”

“The book… it had a ritual to… create a new body.”

Tiresius continued this, nodding his head, “That orb contained the trapped soul of a dragon. It’s… its possible. I sent the soul on, but the body remains.”

“Then we kill it, right?” asked Hotspur.

As if in answer, the building lurched again, and a rattling snarl sounded over the battle outside. They heard the dragon’s roar less with their ears than with their bones.

“It may not be that simple,” muttered Balthezar, before he furrowed his brow and straightened his back, “But we have to try. I have an idea. Gather your weapons and go to the roof, everyone, quickly. Here!”

With that, Balthezar closed his eyes and, as Tiresius had done for them before, unleashed a healing light which refreshed the entire group at least enough to walk straight.

“Mr. Tiresius, you stay with me,” he said, his soft face as hard as it had ever been, “I have… something we might try.”

The rest of the group, nervous but buzzing with excitement, funneled up to the roof, but Creon stayed behind a second longer than the rest. He seemed about to say something to the green dragonborn, but felt, soon, a hand around his, crushing him in a grip that was at least as strong as his own. He turned and saw Caliban, pulling him along, one eye meeting his and the other pointing ahead towards the rest of the party.

“Trust Cloudgazer,” said Caliban, simply, and Creon knew there was nothing but to obey and follow closely behind the rest of them.

The librarian watched the two of them go, thoughts running through his head faster than he could process them, and the ideas quickly coalesced. Furrowing his horned brow, Balthezar began to concentrate on another spell, grasping his holy symbol and dictating, carefully, “Quartermaster, this is Balthezar Cloudgazer. I’m on the fifth floor. Bring… the biggest spells you have. Scrolls fit for a powerful sorcerer.”

There was no answer, but Balthezar knew that meant there was no argument. He breathed in, before he cast a second spell, feeling himself grow exhausted from the magic within, and he dictated another sending, “Brutus, this is the Chosen. Send every mage you can find to the roof. My friends are there. Help them.”

“G-gosh! Master Cloudgazer? Wowie!” heard Balthezar, “Okay! You can count on me!”

“What are you planning, anyway?” asked Tiresius, “We’re both tapped, I can tell. I got some of my lower order powers left, but nothing that can stand up to that monster.”

“We’re sitting on the entire sum of knowledge on the world of Toril as we know it. We need not rely only on our power, but the power of the ages,” explained Balthezar, before he saw a robed figure turn the corner, “We need just one spell, just to knock that thing out of the sky. I pray… I pray they have it!”

The figure was seemingly human, and he carried a small stack of scroll tubes with solemnity towards the two dragonborn. The building shook once again, and they all stumbled, but still, the man completed his delivery, bowing to Balthezar.

“Save us,” he said, “Save the library, Cloudgazer.”

“I will,” said the green dragonborn, before he snatched one of the scroll tubes from the stack and inspected its contents. He unrolled an ancient-looking piece of parchment and furrowed his horned brow. He nodded his head and, soon, handed the scroll to Tiresius.

“What’s this?”

“Power. Sheer power,” explained Balthezar, “Read it. You’ll see what I mean.”

Tiresius did, trying his best to ignore the battle with the skeletal wyrm outside. His own eyes went wide with astonishment. This power was more than either of them could ever dream of! And yet… He turned to look out the window, at the shape of the wyrm’s skull and claws, and he knew there was a hole in Balthezar’s plan.

“That’s a red dragon!” he explained, “This won’t even scratch those bones. Something else…”

“There is nothing else! This is the power we need.”

“But it won’t…”

“I’ve realized your strength, Mr. Tiresius,” Balthezar interrupted him, “You hold dominion over dragons, and draconic elements, do you not? Not just one, as other draconic sorcerers do, but over all! If fire won’t do, there are ways to change it, aren’t there?”

“Change…?”

“It’s… it’s a longshot, but you can do it. Your inner metamagic can reshape the spell. Make it something that can be unleashed upon that beast outside.”

“So not only do I have to cast this monster, and not mess it up, I also have to… bend the magic? You sure ask a lot of people, Balthezar.”

“Because I know you can do it,” he answered, placing his hands on Tiresius’ shoulder, “I can’t cast that, but I can help you decipher it. By the light of Deneir, I can guide you.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then… the library is doomed. But you can. And you will!”

With that, Balthezar began to pray silently, and soon Tiresius found a wellspring of inspiration within himself. He looked down at the scroll. Where the symbols and algebra describing its form and function were mere scratches to him before, they now made at least some sense. He might have been able to do it. He nodded his head.

“Let’s begin.”

\--

All the rest, Vanya and Hotspur in the lead, Ms. Shortbread cautiously rushing up behind, and Rosalind riding on Caliban’s shoulder as he held hands with Creon, emerged into the dusk light on the crenelated rooftop of the fortress of Candlekeep. The first to arrive, Vanya peered over the side and saw the dragon flying, swooping down to ram into the wall of the fortress. On either side of them, mages were stationed, flinging spells down at the bone dragon, defending their home from this strange invader.

“What do we do now? We can’t reach him.”

“I can!” cried Rosalind, “Put me down, Caliban!”

Caliban did as he was told and placed Rosalind Tossfeather down on the ledge of the castle so that she could see. She stared down at the dragon and, closing her eyes and gathering the power of a spell, she opened her book and began to draw power from it, almost the same way Master Tethil began to draw power from the black book below. Soon, she found the spell, and flung her hand forward.

All at once, a bright flash of light issued forth from the wall of the castle, constructing itself foot-by-foot before it. The dragon, dazzled all of a sudden by the light, tried to fall back, but found that the wall’s construction chased it around, and, eventually, completely enclosed it in radiance. They heard another rattling roar, and Rosalind smiled.

“That should hold him for a bit. That wall stings like nobody’s business.”

“But what about the rest of us?” asked Hotspur, her axe in her hand, itching for a fight, “We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“Are you…” began a slow, serious-sounding voice, “The party of the chosen?”

All eyes turned to regard the voice, and they saw a group of sagely old men and women, elves by the look of them, all wearing blue robes and holding crystal-topped staves. Caliban and Hotspur recognized the looks of the robes. They were the kind Balthezar wore once upon a time, when he first arrived in Waterdeep.

“We are,” said Hotspur.

“Then… allow us.”

All at once, each sage raised their staff and a glowing power emanated forth. Soon, one by one, a sudden lightness invaded each of them, and to the last, they all began to float into the air, eyes wide.

“What…?” Hotspur cried out, waving her arms wildly.

“We are… flying…?” asked Caliban, immediately uncomfortable as he began to attempt to swim in the air as if he was a crocodile.

The rest of the party, with varying degrees of gracefulness, soon discovered that they had been gifted the power of flight by the sages of Candlekeep. There was little time for experimentation, however, and everyone knew there was an important battle to be fought.

“Go, now. Fight the beast while the chosen conducts the ritual,” said the archmage as he and his sages stepped back to a safe place to continue concentrating on the spell of flight from a position of safety.

Left alone, Vanya was the first to take the initiative, followed soon after by Ms. Shortbread and Hotspur. One by one, in joyous flight, they dived down off the roof and towards the wall of light which entrapped the bone dragon. Rosalind stayed behind, laughing, as she fired blasts of eldritch energy into the wall, three at a time, knowing she had a good chance of striking the beast.

The last to go were Creon and Caliban. With a longsword in hand, Creon knew he would be able to fight at his fullest now, and he was nearly ready to dive, but Caliban’s confusion over the mechanics of magical flight gave him pause. He couldn’t leave the lizardfolk behind. Gently, he flew up to take the lizard’s hand in his own this time. Caliban looked at him, and the silver dragonborn’s hard, confident face gave way to just the smallest of smiles, before he pulled the lizardfolk along by the hand and, together, they dove from the roof to join the fight.

\--

Tiresius stood, staring out the window with Balthezar massaging his shoulders, suffusing him with spiritual guidance as he explained the holes in his expertise when it came to the arcane, helping him to put together enough of an understanding when it came to magic that he could read and use this densely written spell scroll. Eventually, however, there was only so much Balthezar could help him with, and he had to try to cast the spell himself. Taking the scroll in hand, he picked his targets – the dragon had broken out of the wall of light, screaming as its bones sizzled, but it did not seem to be any closer to falling. However, it seemed to fly blind, and a few flying specks followed, chasing it down with swords and spells. Tiresius realized after a moment he recognized those gnats as their friends and understood for the first time just how massive this ancient dragon’s skeleton really was. That last realization gave him the last bit of resolve to complete his understanding of the spell, and he took the parchment in one of his hands and touched the front of it with his other. Finally, he closed his eyes in concentration.

“Carefully, Mr. Tiresius. This spell is more powerful than most people can ever hope to even see cast in a lifetime. Do not let the magic consume you.”

“Nothing can consume me, Cloudgazer,” said Tiresius, “I am Tyrantborn.”

With that, he opened his eyes once again, and Balthezar saw them turn to pure white. The paper in Tiresius’ hands began to glow, and then sizzle, and soon burned away to nothing as the magic trapped within mingled with the magic within his very blood. The clouds themselves parted at once as if on command from divinity, and Balthezar’s eyes went wide as four burning rocks of fire fell, screaming, out of the sky. Tiresius, his hands suddenly free, began to direct them like a conductor, and the magicians on the walls of the castle fled at the sight of the meteors falling from the heavens. Similarly, the gnats around the dragon fled as well, and the dragon, blinded by the light of the wall still, could not quite get a solid hit on any of them.

“Fire? No,” muttered Tiresius, “I will not be red today. I think I should try… white.”

Balthezar was astonished to see that when Tiresius said that, the very color of his scales began to change, going from the increasingly pink and red-tinged gold that had come to be his normal palate when he was suffused in power, to a pale, white gold. Balthezar felt the temperature drop through the man’s shoulders and pulled his hands away before he could feel his fingers freeze. It was working.

As Balthezar stared out the window, the flames riding down from the heavens seemed to snuff at once, and then turn bright blue. Balls of ice were suddenly hurtling down towards the dragon, and the wyrm screamed as, one-by-one, they struck!

The roar of the meteors was deafening, and Balthezar had to cover his ears and look away as he flinched at the noise. However, he was quick to return to the window and stared out into the sky for where the wyrm ended up. He could not find him, not until he saw the creature hurtling towards the sea, being pushed away from Candlekeep by the meteors.

“Soulless husk of my cousin,” said Tiresius, solemnly, “Rest at the bottom of the sea.”

And with that, there was a splash, and a column of water rose up, taller even than the highest spires of the fortress. It then began to rain, as seawater from the explosion fell down upon them. For several moments it seemed as if they were caught in a torrent, and visibility was impossible, but soon, it let up.

Silence fell over Candlekeep as all those who defended her walls stared out over the water, waiting for the creature to emerge. When there was silence for several moments, a cheer rose up, and then another. Balthezar was the first in the hallway to cry out in triumph, throwing his arms around Tiresius’ neck, and the old man stared out into the sea, blankly, exhausted. His eyes turned to look at the young, green dragonborn who was babbling on about the amazing feat he had just pulled off, and going far deeper than was appropriate into the specific aspects of the weave he had just tapped into, and Tiresius couldn’t help but begin to smile, reaching up a hand to rest on the arms wrapped around his neck. For once in his life he was proud of these powers he had been granted, and this sweet, bookish young man had helped him to realize that.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, a few loose ends, a few goodbyes, and a new future to look forward to.

News of the commotion in Candlekeep reached Baldur’s Gate soon after. A Dracolich attacking the library was big news, especially as they stood so close to the city. The people were in a panic as they wondered if the skeletal wyrm would return, but news soon came that Candlekeep was calm. It had been dealt with.

It had been about a week since the group had returned to the city. Balthezar, strong and calm, had managed to sit through the service of Master Vendri Tethil without sobbing, helped along by the presence of his friends and newfound party members. Vanya, however, was scarce for the entire week, having sequestered himself away from the rest in apparent atonement for his part in the wyrm’s assault on the library. For the latter half of the ceremony, Balthezar left his friends behind, as they were not permitted to accompany the body down into the crypts beneath the castle. It had been explained to them that the bodies of great scholars of Candlekeep were kept down there, and that Master Tethil had more than earned his place in the archive of the dead, where their final memoirs could be written by clerics and sages learning as much as they could by communing with the memories of the dead.

It took a long time for Balthezar Cloudgazer to emerge from the tomb, and both Caliban and Creon stood vigil in the waiting area, long after the rest had gone to bed. It was late evening by the time Balthezar, looking exhausted and smelling of dust and damp, was escorted back to the lobby where the lizardfolk and silver dragonborn sat. From the look on his soft face, bags under his eyes and the deep green color of his blush, he had been emotional while they were interring his master. He hardly said anything to his two lovers, merely collapsing into Creon’s arms and murmuring that he wished to go to sleep. Caliban and Creon looked to one another at this point and, together, they found a room for their friend and laid him down peacefully to enter a deep, exhausted rest.

\--

Hotspur sat on the grass of the cemetery in Baldur’s Gate, leaning against the outer wall of the tomb, while Vanya stood, staring at the entrance. It had been a week since they had arrived in the city once again, and as one the group found themselves standing before the Greylash tomb. There was one final piece of business to deal with. Vanya had asked a few members of the party, thinking only one or two would join him, but the entire group had arrived. Ms. Shortbread and Rosalind had rolled out a blanket and had assembled a picnic as they waited for the result of the ritual. Creon and Caliban, now close friends after their adventure together, sat silently nearby, clearly anxious. Only Balthezar and Tiresius were nowhere to be found.

Soon, Rosalind approached the Silver dragonborn and the lizardfolk, offering a sandwich to each of them, “Here you go, you two, lunchtime.”

Caliban wasted no time in reaching forward to snatch his sandwich from the halfling’s hand and began to stuff it into his mouth hungrily. Creon was a little slower to take his, looking down at Rosalind Tossfeather’s kindly face. He took it, inspecting it and took a small bite, chewing it pensively before simply holding it in his hand.

Caliban was already finished with his sandwich and noticed after a moment how slowly the dragonborn was eating his. He said, “Snout must eat.”

“I know,” said Creon, his distracted gaze turning to stare at the entrance to the tomb, “They’ve been in there a long time. You don’t think…?”

“The Gold is in there with him. They are both powerful,” said Caliban, reaching forward with his nose to push the silver’s sandwich towards his face, “Trust Cloudgazer. Eat.”

“Caliban’s right, Snout,” said Rosalind, sitting on the grass with her own sandwich, “Hallowing a place takes a long time. Divine power’s finicky. It’s not like dark magic that’s just begging you to roll up and take a piece for yourself. It’s gotta be coaxed and convinced before the Gods give you the time of day.”

“I guess,” muttered Creon, before he forced himself to take another bite. He noticed the taste this time, finding that it was delicious, seasoned roast beef. He muttered, “Good.”

“Thanks! Old family recipe, y’know?”

Creon nodded, before he took another bite. He thought for a moment, looking from the halfling to the lizardfolk, before he began to speak, “Roz.”

“Yeah, Snout?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

Creon shrugged, “I dunno, just felt like you needed thanking. Helping me, I guess? Talking to me? Calling me that dumb nickname?”

“Being your friend? That doesn’t need any thanks, Snout.”

“Is Snout not your real name?” asked Caliban at this point, “I hear people call Snout different things. Snout is easier to say.”

Creon grimaced, before he shrugged his shoulders and took another bite of his sandwich to give him time to formulate a response. Eventually, he said, “When I was a kid, I was, well…”

“Yes?” asked Rosalind, smiling wide and eyes twinkling.

“Uh… nosy,” muttered Creon, “I always stuck my snout in other peoples’ business. Got other kids in trouble when I figured out who did this or that. I was always kind of a snitch, I guess.”

“So they called you Snout,” said Rosalind, nodding, with a frown, “That’s not a bad name, is it? I can call you Creon if you like.”

“Coming from you and Caliban, its fine,” said Creon, before he looked away towards the other members of their current party, “Just… don’t let it spread around, okay?”

“Got it!” she answered, happily, “You can count on me or my name isn’t Rosalind Tossfeather!”

“And it is,” Caliban said, nodding his head, “Her name really is Rosalind Tossing Feather.”

“And you better believe it!”

Creon couldn’t help but smile at the banter between his two friends, letting just the lightest of chuckles escape his lips. Rosalind’s eyes went wide as she realized they had gotten a laugh out of the dour dragonborn, and her smile went even wider. She tucked into her sandwich, then, self-satisfied, knowing that she had managed to do her part in getting through to the silver.

“It’s done!” cried Vanya suddenly.

All eyes turned to stare at Vanya before he stepped forward, rapturous expression on his bearded face. A moment later, there came a strange, gentle light from within the tomb. Creon stood first, eager to see what Balthezar had managed to accomplish, followed one by one by each of the members of this ad hoc party they had formed. The light settled itself on them, casting a warm glow upon those gathered around, before fading to something invisible that no one could sense without the help of divine power. Creon and Caliban, knowing that Balthezar would emerge soon, approached and Caliban took Creon’s hand by reflex. Creon allowed it, at this point used to the lizardfolk’s affectionate nature.

Soon, emerging from the darkness below, Balthezar and Tiresius climbed the stairs and into the afternoon light of the cemetery. Balthezar seemed exhausted, as if he had not slept in a day, and Tiresius had the younger man’s arm around his shoulder, helping him to walk. Worried at once, Creon and Caliban rushed ahead and took the green from the gold, helping him to the picnic blanket and coaxing him to sit.

“Creon, Caliban,” said Balthezar, smiling, “Thank you.”

Vanya walked forward, demanding, “Is it done?”

Caliban snarled at the paladin’s brusque manner, but Balthezar raised a hand to silence the lizard before he answered, “It is. No undead may lurk these halls. The curse is not lifted, but if your family inters the bodies here, they cannot rise again.”

Vanya stared at the green dragonborn, then, before he all but collapsed, all strength leaving him. Soon after, he reached forward, his head going limp, and he took a green scaled hand in his own.

“Thank you,” he said, simply.

Balthezar only smiled in answer, nodding his head, before he let go of the paladin’s hand and leaned back, taking that moment to relax.

However, there was no rest for Tiresius. With a look towards the group, and a smile, he simply raised his hood and began to walk away. Creon was the first to notice the dragonborn’s exit, and he let go of Caliban’s hand, rushing to catch up to him.

“Tiresius, where are you going?” he asked.

The gold couldn’t help but laugh, but did not stop walking, “I have to go.”

Creon quickened his pace to walk alongside the old man, then, furrowing his brow, “Go? Now? Without even a goodbye?”

“What do you care for goodbyes, son? I know you ain’t the sentimental type.”

“I ain’t, but…” began Creon, before he looked back and saw the rest of the group, who were slowly realizing that Tiresius was leaving. With an annoyed hiss, he continued, “Cloudgazer is. At least…”

Tiresius interrupted him with a laugh, finally stopping and turning towards Creon, “I may have used my powers to help you, but… I’m still the Tyrantborn. I involved everyone in my business without care for their safety. I needed them, but now I don’t. Better I just fade away, lest I put more people in danger.”

“We can protect you, y’know?”

“I can protect myself.”

Creon clenched his jaw, then, letting annoyance sneak into his voice as he said, “Kinda selfish of you, ain’t it?”

“Selfish?”

“You… you know how much you mean to…” began Creon, stopping himself before he betrayed feelings he didn’t feel ready to acknowledge, “… to Cloudgazer. How much you mean to him. He’s lost somebody important to him. He doesn’t need to lose anybody else.”

“He ain’t losing me. I’m nobody to him.”

“You’re wrong. You’re a sweet old man who was nice to him. You’re more important than you know.”

“I know… but not to Cloudgazer. He’ll live without me. He’s stronger than that. Stronger than all of us if I had to wager.”

“But…”

Creon froze as Tiresius laid a hand on his shoulder. He pulled back his hood and revealed the smile which caused his whiskers to sway.

“You’re not talking about Cloudgazer, are you, Snout?”

Creon’s face fell in annoyance as he said, “Oh, don’t you call me that now, too!”

Tiresius laughed, looking away, towards the rest of the party, before looking back to Creon. He then said, “I’m happy I could be so important to someone. I would have been happy if it had stopped with you not wanting to kill me anymore.”

“It doesn’t stop there, though,” said Creon, loudly, before he reached up and snatched Tiresius’ hand off of his shoulder. He then used it to pull the gold back towards the picnic.

“S-Snout?”

“You say goodbye properly, you damned fool!” demanded Creon, before he pulled the old man forward and then pushed him towards the party, “Go on.”

Tiresius stumbled forward, before he froze in place. All eyes were on him. He cleared his throat softly, before he looked back at Creon in annoyance.

“Everyone, it seems I have no choice but to, uh, say goodbye.”

The group was silent as they listened. Balthezar’s face fell in light sorrow, but he forced himself to smile.

“So,” continued Tiresius, “I think it best if I move on without a fuss. I’m still dangerous, and…”

“Come to Waterdeep,” said Balthezar, suddenly, standing up with quaking knees. Caliban stood with him, “I insist, even if it’s just for a visit.”

“… Waterdeep…?”

“Of course! You’re welcome anytime,” said Hotspur, walking up and smiling around her tusks, “Wherever you go, excitement seems to follow.”

“And look me up as well, Mr. Tiresius,” said Ms. Shortbread, “I may have… work for you if you like.”

“You wouldn’t have to wander. If anyone comes after you again, we can protect you!” insisted Balthezar.

“Protect. Yes,” Caliban said, nodding his head, “The Gold is worth protecting.”

Tiresius’s eyes progressively got wider and wider as he listened to these people he still felt he barely knew telling him such things. He realized in that moment that in these people he may have gained something he had never had before.

“Everyone,” said Tiresius, pulling his hood up to cover up the smile, “Thank you. I will. Goodbye.”

He turned, but Creon was there to ambush him. He said nothing more, merely staring into his face with a calm expression, before he offered a hand to the gold dragonborn to shake. Tiresius stared down at the hand but did not waste another instant in wonder. He clasped wrists with the silver. The two of them stayed like that for a moment, until finally, Tiresius let go and, with a final wave, began to walk away.

Rosalind couldn’t help but call out the last word, “Told you so!” and left Tiresius laughing gaily as he disappeared across the green fields of the Baldur’s Gate cemetery.

“Well, now, don’t let the food go to waste. I think it’s time we ate,” said Ms. Shortbread, “Here, Balthezar.”

Balthezar accepted the sandwich gladly from the old woman, nodding his head and saying, “Thank you,” before he tucked into it.

With all the tension gone, Vanya stared at the party as they settled into light conversation and small talk, all thoughts of adventure gone as they shared a sweet moment of reflection over lunch on the green. Balthezar, Caliban, and Creon sat together, leaning against one another and talking, as Ms. Shortbread and Hotspur talked and joked with one another, and Rosalind bounced between the two groups, eager to be privy to every conversation and every so often opening up her book to write a line or two as she listened. Vanya, still standing, felt alone all of a sudden, and turned without a word to leave, slipping away as unnoticed as he could.

\--

After a few minutes, Vanya was certain he had left without being subjected to such a public goodbye. He couldn’t bear being paraded in front of the rest of them like Tiresius had been, and so, he simply left to sink back into the underworld of Baldur’s Gate. He had things he had to do, issues he had to work out, and arrangements to make. His family would still be on his case, after all, and staying in one spot meant he could be caught by them at any time. He stopped in the shade of a gnarled tree and looked around, just to be sure he wasn’t being followed.

“Here you are,” said a woman’s voice from around the corner, and Vanya immediately took a battle position, his whip in his hands.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, “Show yourself.”

“It’s me, you dolt,” said Hotspur, emerging from around the corner with a smile, “Thought you could get away, did you?”

“How…?”

“Ms. Shortbread’s got sharp eyes. Saw you trying to scarper,” said Hotspur, “You and I have unfinished business, though.”

Vanya scowled, beginning to coil his whip back up to replace it at his side. “No, we don’t. We’re not going to be married if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m suggesting no such thing,” said Hotspur, shrugging, before she walked forward into the shadow of the tree with him, “I don’t want to get tied down now. My career’s just getting started. Yours too.”

“My… my ‘career’ as you put it is in jeopardy. I violated my oath. I… I must atone for that.”

“How are you going to find the time with your family breathing down your neck?”

“I have managed this long. I will…”

“You don’t need to manage anything,” interrupted Hotspur, “I have the solution. Want to hear it?”

Vanya was silent, but he was listening, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“It’s quite simple,” said Hotspur, “You have impressed me, and clearly I’ve impressed you. I wouldn’t call it worthy of love or marriage or anything, but it’s certainly a good excuse to… fake it.”

“Fake…?”

“Certainly,” Hotspur said with a smirk, “I go home to Waterdeep, and you go back to your grandmother. We both very solemnly and very publicly announce our engagement to both Waterdhavian and Balduran society.”

“But…”

“But what? It’s an engagement, not a marriage,” said Hotspur, her smile growing wider, “With the date of the wedding… to be determined. That should buy us both enough time to get our families off of our backs, yes? The union of the Greylashes and the Eagleshields will take forever to hash out, after all. My father is extremely protective of me, you know. Once he finds out your family is involved with necromancy and Thay…”

“That is not public knowledge.”

“Even so, he’ll find out, and he will drag his feet every step of the way. All of the details about the date, location, dowry, who pays for what… Nobody will agree on anything, and you and I can go on like we were, free from social obligation for at least as long as the ruse lasts. Once it all falls apart, we can concoct some falling out between us, and that will be that. We never have to see one another again.”

Vanya was stock still as he watched Hotspur, his eyes narrowing as he listened to this. He looked away, thinking, before he breathed in deep and sighed.

“Never is a long time.”

“Oh?”

“I do not think it would be wise to never want to see each other again. You are a… competent warrior. I would not want to lose the opportunity to join forces with you again.”

Hotspur laughed, “You’re not so bad yourself, Pencil-neck. I guess that’s fine. After the falling out we can declare we’re still friends, and we just had an irreconcilable difference. Is that fair?”

Vanya nodded his head, then and walked towards Hotspur, offering his hand for her to shake. “Yes. This plan will work.”

“Alright then!” cried Hotspur, smiling, as she took his thinner hand in her own and shook it vigorously, “Looking forward to seeing you again, Vanya Greylash.”

Vanya did not smile, but the lingering look he gave her let her know that he thought the same. “Hotspur. Goodbye.”

With that, he pulled his hand away and walked on, back towards the city. He would stop by his grandmother’s estate first, then, explain the situation, and that would be that. He would then spend several days at the temple of Tyr. He intended to purify himself, to become worthy of his oath once again. After that, he had heard rumors of a serial killer in the back alleys. That would be a worthy foe to hunt…

\--

A day later, the covered wagon was loaded, and while Tiresius was gone, and Ms. Shortbread and Rosalind had decided to travel together apart from the rest of the group, that left Balthezar once again driving the cart, with Caliban curled up beside him, and Hotspur riding in the back. The difference was that on the librarian’s other side, Creon was sitting, arms crossed, and his eyes closed in thought.

“So, these Harpers,” said Creon, conspiratorially, “I’ve heard of them. They didn’t really seem like my kind of crowd, to be honest.”

“Well, Pequod is on the side of good, and wishes the best for the city. That’s all that matters.”

“Pequod… the bard,” muttered Creon darkly.

They had just left the outer city of Baldur’s Gate once again, and Balthezar stared out at the familiar sights of the Chionthar river disappearing behind him as they began the long trek back to Waterdeep.

“Yes, he is a bard, but I assure you he’s all business,” said Balthezar, before he thought for a moment and amended his statement, “Mostly business.”

“You think he’ll get along with me?”

“Probably not at first,” said the voice of Hotspur from the back, “You’re a bit of a stiff.”

“Puck will like you a lot, though,” Balthezar insisted.

“Puck likes everybody,” Hotspur said.

“You’re not helping!” called Balthezar back to the half-orc in annoyance, before he huffed out a breath and continued, “In any case, I still insist upon you joining us, Creon. Your strength will be a welcome addition to our own.”

“I’m ready to give anything a try now,” said Creon, quietly, “I ain’t got nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. I burned my last bridge back to Tymanther, so… might as well try out making a new life somewhere else.”

“Oh, Creon,” said Balthezar, reaching over to lay a gentle hand on the silver dragonborn’s leg, “It’s going to be alright.”

“I know, as long as I got you and the rest, I know it will,” he said, raising his arm to rest around Balthezar’s shoulder. Balthezar smiled at the touch and leaned close to him.

“Please don’t start fucking on the road. I know I’m outnumbered here, but honestly...!”

“You gonna mind your own godsdamn business, Hotspur?” snapped Creon, suddenly, annoyance on his face, “Me and Cloudgazer are having a damn moment here if you don’t mind.”

Balthezar’s face fell in a sudden fear. His eyes went wide as he looked over at Creon daring to talk back to Hotspur of all people with such a tone of voice. Even Caliban, who had been awoken by the outburst, seemed to realize the heavy atmosphere and pushed up against Balthezar protectively.

Soon, Hotspur’s face emerged from behind them, though the covered wagon, and she shoved her face close to Creon’s.

“What did you say to me, horns?” said Hotspur, reaching up to flick one of Creon’s long, swept-back horns.

“I said,” Creon snarled, not looking away from the half-orc’s dangerous, wide-eyed look of rage, “Mind your own godsdamn business.”

The two of them stared at one another, neither one blinking for a long time. Balthezar suddenly wondered if it had been a mistake to invite Creon back to Waterdeep with them to join their group proper. Creon was brusque and did not brook jokes or nonsense, and both Hotspur and Pequod were well known for their somewhat mean-spirited senses of humor. If they didn’t mix well, Balthezar wasn’t sure what he would do.

Suddenly, Hotspur was the first to break the standoff. She barked out a laugh right in Creon’s face, and then turned to Balthezar, before she said, “This one’s got stones, Cloudgazer. I approve. Keep him on a short leash, alright?”

Before Balthezar could answer, Hotspur, smile on her face, disappeared back into the cart and fell silent. The green dragonborn was relieved.

“I, uh, apologize for Hotspur, Creon. I…”

He was interrupted when Creon pulled him into a closer embrace and whispered into his ear, “It’s fine. We can make all the noise we want when we make camp, huh?”

A thrill ran through Balthezar then as he blinked his eyes. He couldn’t help but give a small, nervous titter, and turned his eyes to the road to distract himself from the lascivious thoughts suddenly running through his mind.

“Not too much noise,” Caliban insisted, “Cloudgazer and Snout must sleep.”

“He’s, uh, not talking about sleeping, Caliban,” said Balthezar with a bashful smile.

“Oh. I see,” Caliban said with a nod, before he thought long and hard, staring from Creon to Balthezar, “Shall I join?”

This question took both dragonborn off guard. The possibility had not occurred to Balthezar, and Creon still wasn’t altogether used to the arrangement between the librarian and the lizard. Creon looked past Balthezar, taking in the form of the sturdy, muscular lizardfolk, and considered it for a moment. The appetites of his new lover were certainly on the wild side, he thought to himself, and he had to admit after knowing the lizard for a time, he could see the appeal. He then turned to stare at the green, as the librarian stared back. Their eyes met and then wandered down to take in the bodies of the other. Creon did not smile but gave a small rumble of excitement and approval and tightened his grip on Balthezar in anticipation, and Caliban, sensing the answer to his question, tightened his own grip as well. Balthezar’s face blushed furiously between the two solid masses of muscle clutching on to him as he realized what was going to transpire as soon as they made camp that night.

“Oh, Gods, take me now,” said Hotspur in mock prayer from behind them, “I’m in hell. Please, whoever can hear me. Deneir, Tyr, Bahamut… hell, Tiamat, strike me dead and free me from this!”

“What did I just…” Creon snapped, but he was interrupted by a long lick up the side of his face. He looked over and expected to see Caliban, but instead saw Balthezar, tongue out and a sultry look on his face, with Caliban hovering over his shoulder, looking at both dragonborn with a hunger unfamiliar to the silver. Creon felt his excitement return and build, and soon, he too began to blush bright enough that it could show clear through his metallic, silver sheen.


End file.
